14  1431  220 


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Krvi/v.* 


No 


A   MARTINIQUE   METISSE. 
(In  "douillette"  and  "madras.") 


TWO  YEARS 


IN  THE 


FRENCH    WEST   INDIES 


BY    LAFCAD1O    HEARN 

AUTHOR  OF  "CHITA"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 


''La  fa<;on  d'etre  du  pays  est  si  agitable,  la  temperature  si 
bonne,  et  I'on  y  vit  dans  une  libertd  si  honnete,  que  je  naye 
pas  vu  un  seul  komme,  ny  une  seule  femme,  qui  en  soient 
revcnus,  en  qui  je  naye  remarque  une  grande  passion  d'y, 
retourner" — LE  PERE  DUTERTKE  (1667) 


Copyright,  1890,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS.     All  rights  reserved. 


r 


£021 


A  MON  CHER  AMI 

LEOPOLD    ARNOUX 

NOTATRE  A  SAINT  PIERRE,  MARTINIQUE 

Souvenir  de  nos  promenades, — de  nos  voyages, — de  nos  cauteries, 
des  sympathies  ^change'es, — de  tout  le  charme  d'une  amitie1 
inalterable  et  inoubliable, — de  tout  ce  qui  parle  <i 
rdme  au  doux  Pays  des  Revenants. 


PREFACE. 


DURING  a  trip  to  the  Lesser  Antilles  in  the  summer  of 
1887,  th£  writer  of  the  following  pages,  landing  at  Mar- 
tinique, fell  undej:  the  influence  of  that  singular  spell 
which  the  island  has  always  exercised  upon .  strangers, 
and  by  which  it  has  earned  its  poetic  name, — Le  Pays 
des  Revenants.  Even  as  many  another  before  him,  he 
left  its  charmed  shores  only  to  know  himself  haunted 
by  that  irresistible  regret,  —  unlike  any  other, — which 
is  the  enchantment  of  the  land  upon  all  who  wander 
away  from  it.  So  he  returned,  intending  to  remain 
some  months;  but  the  bewitchment  prevailed,  and  he 
remained  two  years. 

Some  of  the  literary  results  of  that  sojourn  form  the 
bulk  of  the  present  volume.  Several,  or  portions  of 
several,  papers  have  been  published  in  HARPER'S  MAG- 
AZINE ;  but  the  majority  of  the  sketches  now  appear  in 
print  for  -the  first  time. 

The  introductory  paper,  entitled  "  A  Midsummer 
Trip  to  the  Tropics,"  consists  for  the  most  part  of 


6  Preface. 

notes  taken  upon  a  voyage  of  nearly  three  thousand 
miles,  accomplished  in  less  than  two  months.  Dur- 
ing such  hasty  journeying  it  is  scarcely  possible  for  a 
writer  to  attempt  anything  more  serious  than  a  mere  re- 
flection of  the  personal  experiences  undergone ;  and,  in 
spite  of  sundry  justifiable  departures  from  simple  note- 
making,  this  paper  is  offered  only  as  an  effort  to  record 
the  visual  and  emotional  impressions  of  the  moment. 

» 
My  thanks  are  due  to  Mr.  William  Lawless,  British 

Consul  at  St.  Pierre,  for  several  beautiful  photographs, 
taken  by  himself,  which  have  been  used  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  illustrations. 

L.  H. 

Philadelphia,  1889. ' 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

A  MIDSUMMER  TRIP  TO  THE  TROPICS 13 

MARTINIQUE  SKETCHES: — 

!.•  LES  PORTEUSES ioi 

II.  LA  GRANDE  ANSE 121 

III.  UN  REVENANT 148 

IV.  LA  GUIABLESSE , 184 

V.  LA  VERETTE 202 

VI.  LES  BLANCHISSEUSES 241 

VII.  LA  PELEE ,     ....  254 

VIII.  Ti  CANOTIE 294 

IX.    LA    FlLLE   DE   COULEUR 311 

X.  BETE-NI-PIE 338 

XI.  MA  BONNE 348 

XII.  "PA  COMBINE,  CHE!" 380 

XIII.  YE '. 400 

XIV.  LYS 411 

XV.  APPENDIX: — SOME  CREOLE  MELODIES  .     .     .    .    t  424 


ILLUSTRATIONS, 


A  Martinique  Mttisse Frontispiece 

La  Place  Berttn,  St.  Pierre,  Martinique  ....      Faces  page  36 

Itinerant  Pastry-seller "  "42 

In  the  Cimetiere  du  Mouillage,  St.  Pierre     .     .     .     .  "  "50 

In  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  St.  Pierre  ......"  '"58 

Cascade  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes "  "62 

Departure  of  Steamer  for  Fort-de-France      .     .     .     .  "  :     64 

Statue  of  Josephine "  "66 

Inner  Basin,  Bridgetown,  Barbadoes '  '68 

Trafalgar  Sqtmre,  Bridgetown,  Barbadoes    .     .     .     .  **  "70 

Street  in  Georgetown^  Demerara  ,          '  72 

Avenue  in  Georgetown,  Demerara "  74 

Victoria  Regia  in  the  Canal  a4  Georgetown  .     .     .     .  "  "76 

Demerara  Coolie  Girl "  "78 

St.  James  Avenue,  Port-of- Spain,  Trinidad                .  '  82 

Coolies  of  Trinidad "  "84 

Coolie  Servant "  "86 

Coolie  Merchant "  "88 

Church  Street,  St.  George,  Grenada "  "92 

Castries,  St.  Lucia "  "96 


io  Illustrations. 

'Ti  Marie Faces  page  106 

Fort-de-France,  Martinique "~  "     112 

Capre  in  Working  Garb "  "     124 

A  Confirmation  Procession '*  "138 

Manner  of  Playing  the  Ka "  "146 

A  Wayside  Shrine,  or  Chapelle "  "176 

Rue  Victor  Hugo,  St.  Pierre "  "206 

Quarter  of  the  Fort,  St.  Pierre '*  *'     214 

Riviere  des  Blanchisseuses '*  "242 

Foot  of  La  Pele'e,  behind  the  Quarter  of  the  Fort  .  "  "     258 

Village  of  Morne  Rouge "  '*     268 

Pele"e  as  seen  from  Grande  Anse      ,....         ,  *'  "278 

Arborescent  Ferns  on  a  Mountain  Road  ....  **  '*     284 

'TV  Canot     .     , "  "297 

The  Martinique  Turban "  "312 

The  Guadeloupe  Head-dress "  "314 

Young  Mulattress **  "     316 

Coolie  Woman  in  Martinique  Costume     .     .     .     .  "  "     318 

Country  Girl — pure  Negro  Race **  "     320 

Coolie  Half-breed "  "321 

Capresse "  "     330 

The  Old  Market-place  of  the  Fort,  St.  Pierre   .     .  "  "356 

Bread-fruit  Tree "  "362 

Basse-terre,  St.  Kitt's "  "416 


A  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 


A    MIDSUMMER   TRIP    TO    THE 
TROPICS. 

I. 

...  A  LONG,  narrow,  graceful  steel  steamer,  with  two 
masts  and  an  orange-yellow  chimney, — taking  on  cargo 
at  Pier  49  East  River.  Through  her  yawning  hatchways 
a  mountainous  piling  up  of  barrels  is  visible  below  ;  — 
there  is  much  rumbling  and  rattling  of  steam-winches, 
creaking  of  derrick-booms,  groaning  of  pulleys  as  the 
freight  is  being  lowered  in.  A  breezeless  July  morning, 
and  a  dead  heat, — 87°  already. 

The  saloon-deck  gives  one  suggestion  of  past  and  of 
coming  voyages.  Under  the  white  awnings  long  lounge- 
chairs  sprawl  here  and  there, — each  with  an  occupant, 
smoking  in  silence,  or  dozing  with  head  drooping  to  one 
side.  A  young  man,  awaking  as  I  pass  to  my  cabin, 
turns  upon  me  a  pair  of  peculiarly  luminous  black  eyes, 
— Creole  eyes.  Evidently  a  West  Indian.  .  .  . 

The  morning  is  still  gray,  but  the  sun  is  dissolving 
the  haze.  Gradually  the  gray  vanishes,  and  a  beautiful, 
pale,  vapory  blue — a  spiritualized  Northern  blue — colors 
water  and  sky.  A  cannon-shot  suddenly  shakes  the  heavy 
air  :  it  is  our  farewell  to  the  American  shore  ;  —we  move. 
Back  floats  the  wharf,  and  becomes  vapory  with  a  bluish 
tinge.  Diaphanous  mists  seem  to  have  caught  the  sky 
color;  and  even  the  great  red  storehouses  take  a  faint 
blue  tint  as  they  recede.  The  horizon  now  has  a  green- 


14  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

ish  glow.  Everywhere  else  the  effect  is  that  of  looking 
through  very  light-blue  glasses.  .  .  . 

We  steam  under  the  colossal  span  of  the  mighty  bridge ; 
then  for  a  little  while  Liberty  towers  above  our  passing, — 
seeming  first  to  turn  towards  us,  then  to  turn  away  from 
us,  the  solemn  beauty  of  her  passionless  face  of  bronze. 
Tints  brighten; — the  heaven  is  growing  a  little  bluer.  A 
breeze  springs  up.  .  .  . 

Then  the  water  takes  on  another  hue :  pale-green 
lights  play  through  it.  It  has  begun  to  sound.  Little 
waves  lift  up  their  heads  as  though  to  look  at  us, — pat- 
ting the  flanks  of  the  vessel,  and  whispering  to  one  an- 
other. 

Far  off  the  surface  begins  to  show  quick  white  flashes 
here  and  there,  and  the  steamer  begins  to  swing.  .  .  . 
We  are  nearing  Atlantic  waters.  The  sun  is  high  up 
now,  almost  overhead :  there  are  a  few  thin  clouds  in 
the  tender -colored  sky, — flossy,  long-drawn-out,  white 
things.  The  horizon  has  lost  its  greenish  glow :  it  is  a 
spectral  blue.  Masts,  spars,  rigging, —  the  white  boats 
and  the  orange  chimney, — the  bright  deck-lines,  and  the 
snowy  rail, — cut  against  the  colored  light  in  almost  daz- 
zling relief.  Though  the  sun  shines  hot  the  wind  is  cold  : 
its  strong  irregular  blowing  fans  one  into  drowsiness. 
Also  the  somnolent  chant  of  the  engines — do-do,  hey  !  do- 
do, hey  ! — lulls  to  sleep. 

.  .  .  Towards  evening  the  glaucous  sea-tint  vanishes, — 
the  water  becomes  blue.  It  is  full  of  great  flashes,  as  of 
seams  opening  and  reclosing  over  a  white  surface.  It 
spits  spray  in  a  ceaseless  drizzle.  Sometimes  it  reaches 
up  and  slaps  the  side  of  the  steamer  with  a  sound  as  of 
a  great  naked  hand.  The  wind  waxes  boisterous.  Swing- 
ing ends  of  cordage  crack  like  whips.  There  is  an  im- 
mense humming  that  drowns  speech, — a  humming  made 
up  of  many  sounds :  whining  of  pulleys,  whistling  of 
riggings,  flapping  and  fluttering  of  canvas,  roar  of  net- 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  i$ 

tings  in  the  wind.  And  this  sonorous  medley,  ever 
growing  louder,  has  rhythm, — a  crescendo  and  diminuendo 
timed  by  the  steamer's  regular  swinging :  like  a  great 
Voice  crying  out,  "Whoh-oh-oh!  whoh-oh-oh  !"  We 
are  nearing  the  life-centres  of  winds  and  currents.  One 
can  hardly  walk  on  deck  against  the  ever -increasing 
breath;  —  yet  now  the  whole  world  is  blue, —  not  the 
least  cloud  is  visible ;  and  the  perfect  transparency  and 
voidness  about  us  make  the  immense  power  of  this 
invisible  medium  seem  something  ghostly  and  awful.  .  .  . 
The  log,  at  every  revolution,  whines  exactly  like  a  little 
puppy ; — one  can  hear  it  through  all  the  roar  fully  forty 
feet  away. 

...  It  is  nearly  sunset.  Across  the  whole  circle  of  the 
Day  we  have  been  steaming  south.  Now  the  horizon  is 
gold  green.  All  about  the  falling  sun,  this  gold-green 
light  takes  vast  expansion.  .  .  .  Right  on  the  edge  of  the 
sea  is  a  tall,  gracious  ship,  sailing  sunsetward.  Catch- 
ing the  vapory  fire,  she  seems  to  become  a  phantom, — a 
ship  of  gold  mist :  all  her  spars  and  sails  are  luminous, 
and  look  like  things  seen  in  dreams. 

Crimsoning  more  and  more,  the  sun  drops  to  the 
sea.  The  phantom  ship  approaches  him, — touches  the 
curve  of  his  glowing  face,  sails  right  athwart  it!  Oh, 
the  spectral  splendor  of  that  vision!  The  whole  great 
ship  in  full  sail  instantly  makes  an  acute  silhouette 
against  the  monstrous  disk,  —  rests  there  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  vermilion  sun.  His  face  crimsons  high 
above  her  top-masts,  —  broadens  far  beyond  helm  and 
bowsprit.  Against  this  weird  magnificence,  her  whole 
shape  changes  color  :  hull,  masts,  and  sails  turn  black — 
a  greenish  black. 

Sun  and  ship  vanish  together  in  another  minute.    Vio- 
let the  night  comes ;   and  the  rigging  of  the   foremast 
cuts  a  cross  upon  the  face  of  the  moon. 
2 


1 6  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

II. 

MORNING:  the  second  day.  The  sea  is  ~an  extraor- 
dinary blue, —  looks  to  me  something  like  violet  ink. 
Close  by  the  ship,  where  the  foam-clouds  are,  it  is  beau- 
tifully mottled, —  looks  like  blue  marble  with  exquisite 
veinings  and  nebulosities.  .  .  .  Tepid  wind,  and  cottony 
white  clouds, — cirri  climbing  up  over  the  edge  of  the  sea 
all  around.  The  sky  is  still  pale  blue,  and  the  horizon 
is  full  of  a  whitish  haze. 

...  A  nice  old  French  gentleman  from  Guadeloupe 
presumes  to  say  this  is  not  blue  water ; — he  declares  it 
greenish  (verdatre}.  Because  I  cannot  discern  the  green, 
he  tells  me  I  do  not  yet  know  what  blue  water  is.  Atten- 
dez  un  peu  / .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  sky-tone  deepens  as  the  sun  ascends, — deep- 
ens deliciously.  The  warm  wind  proves  soporific.  I 
drop  asleep  with  the  blue  light  in  my  face, — the  strong 
bright  blue  of  the  noonday  sky.  As  I  doze  it  seems  to 
burn  like  a  cold  fire  right  through  my  eyelids.  Waking 
up  with  a  start,  I  fancy  that  everything  is  turning  blue, — 
myself  included.  "  Do  you  not  call  this  the  real  tropi- 
cal blue  ?"  I  cry  to  my  French  fellow-traveller.  "Man 
Dieu  !  non"  he  exclaims,  as  in  astonishment  at  the  ques- 
tion ; — "  this  is  not  blue  !"  .  .  .  What  can  be  his  idea  of 
blue,  I  wonder ! 

Clots  of  sargasso  float  by, — light-yellow  sea-weed.  We 
are  nearing  the  Sargasso-sea, — entering  the  path  of  the 
trade-winds.  There  is  a  long  ground-swell,  the  steamer 
rocks  and  rolls,  and  the  tumbling  water  always  seems 
to  me  growing  bluer;  but  my  friend  from  Guadeloupe 
says  that  this  color  "  which  I  call  blue"  is  only  darkness 
— only  the  shadow  of  prodigious  depth. 

Nothing  now  but  blue  sky  and  what  I  persist  in  call- 
ing blue  sea.  The  clouds  have  melted  away  in  the  bright 
glow.  There  is  no  sign  of  life  in  the  azure  gulf  above, 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  17 

nor  in  the  abyss  beneath ; — there  are  no  wings  or  fins  to 
be  seen.  Towards  evening,  under  the  slanting  gold  light, 
the  color  of  the  sea  deepens  into  ultramarine  ;  then  the 
sun  sinks  down  behind  a  bank  of  copper-colored  cloud. 


III. 

MORNING  of  the  third  day.  Same  mild,  warm  wind. 
Bright  blue  sky,  with  some  very  thin  clouds  in  the  hori- 
zon,—  like  puffs  of  steam.  The  glow  of  the  sea-light 
through  the  open  ports  of  my  cabin  makes  them  seem 
filled  with  thick  blue  glass.  ...  It  is  becoming  too  warm 
for  New  York  clothing.  .  .  . 

Certainly  the  sea  has  become  much  bluer.  It  gives 
one  the  idea  of  liquefied  sky :  the  foam  might  be  formed 
of  cirrus  clouds  compressed, — so  extravagantly  white  it 
looks  to-day,  like  snow  in  the  sun.  Nevertheless,  the  old 
gentleman  from  Guadeloupe  still  maintains  this  is  not  the 
true  blue  of  the  tropics  ! 

.  .  .  The  sky  does  not  deepen  its  hue  to-day :  it  bright- 
ens it ; — the  blue  glows  as  if  it  were  taking  fire  through- 
out. Perhaps  the  sea  may  deepen  its  hue ; — I  do  not 
believe  it  can  take  more  luminous  color  without  being 
set  aflame.  ...  I  ask  the  ship's  doctor  whether  it  is  really 
true  that  the  West  Indian  waters  are  any  bluer  than  these. 
He  looks  a  moment  at  the  sea,  and  replies,  "  Oh  yes  !" 
There  is  such  a  tone  of  surprise  in  his  "  oh  "  as  might 
indicate  that  I  had  asked  a  very  foolish  question;  and 
his  look  seems  to  express  doubt  whether  I  am  quite  in 
earnest.  ...  I  think,  nevertheless,  that  this  water  is  ex- 
travagantly, nonsensically  blue ! 

...  I  read  for  an  hour  or  two ;  fall  asleep  in  the  chair ; 
wake  up  suddenly  ;  look  at  the  sea, — and  cry  out !  This 
sea  is  impossibly  blue  !  The  painter  who  should  try  to 
paint  it  would  be  denounced  as  a  lunatic.  .  .  .  Yet  it  is 
transparent;  the  foam -clouds,  as  they  sink  down,  turn 


1 8  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

sky-blue, — a  sky-blue  which  now  looks  white  by  contrast 
with  the  strange  and  violent  splendor  of  the  sea  color. 
It  seems  as  if  one  were  looking  into  an  immeasurable 
dyeing  vat,  or  as  though  the  whole  ocean  had  been  thick- 
ened with  indigo.  To  say  this  is  a  mere  reflection  of 
the  sky  is  nonsense  ! — the  sky  is  too  pale  by  a  hundred 
shades  for  that !  This  must  be  the  natural  color  of  the 
water, — a  blazing  azure, — magnificent,  impossible  to  de- 
scribe. 

The  French  passenger  from  Guadeloupe  observes  that 
the  sea  is  "beginning  to  become  blue." 


IV. 

AND  the  fourth  day.  One  awakens  unspeakably  lazy; 
— this  must  be  the  West  Indian  languor.  Same  sky,  with 
a  few  more  bright  clouds  than  yesterday; — always  the 
warm  wind  blowing.  There  is  a  long  swell.  Under  this 
trade-breeze,  warm  like  a  human  breath,  the  ocean  seems 
to  pulse, — to  rise  and  fall  as  with  a  vast  inspiration  and 
expiration.  Alternately  its  blue  circle  lifts  and  falls  be- 
fore us  and  behind  us  ; — we  rise  very  high  ;  we  sink  very 
low, — but  always  with  a  slow  long  motion.  Nevertheless, 
the  water  looks  smooth,  perfectly  smooth ;  the  billowings 
which  lift  us  cannot  be  seen ; — it  is  because  the  summits 
of  these  swells  are  mile-broad, — too  broad  to  be  discern- 
ed from  the  level  of  our  deck. 

.  .  .  Ten  A.M. — Under  the  sun  the  sea  is  a  flaming, 
dazzling  lazulite.  My  French  friend  from  Guadeloupe 
kindly  confesses  this  is  almost  the  color  of  tropical  wa- 
ter. .  .  .  Weeds  floating  by,  a  little  below  the  surface,  are 
azured.  But  the  Guadeloupe  gentleman  says  he  has 
seen  water  still  more  blue.  I  am  sorry, — I  cannot  be- 
lieve him. 

Mid-day. — The  splendor  of  the  sky  is  weird !  No  clouds 
above — only  blue  fire !  Up  from  the  warm  deep  color  of 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  19 

the  sea-circle  the  edge  of  the  heaven  glows  as  if  bathed  in 
greenish  flame.  The  swaying  circle  of  the  resplendent 
sea  seems  to  flash  its  jewel-color  to  the  zenith. 

Clothing  feels  now  almost  too  heavy  to  endure ;  and 
the  warm  wind  brings  a  languor  with  it  as  of  tempta- 
tion. .  .  .  One  feels  an  irresistible  desire  to  drowse  on 
deck  ; — the  rushing  speech  of  waves,  the  long  rocking  of 
the  ship,  the  lukewarm  caress  of  the  wind,  urge  to  slum- 
ber ; — but  the  light  is  too  vast  to  permit  of  sleep.  Its 
blue  power  compels  wakefulness.  And  the  brain  is 
wearied  at  last  by  this  duplicated  azure  splendor  of  sky 
and  sea.  How  gratefully  comes  the  evening  to  us, — with 
its  violet  glooms  and  promises  of  coolness ! 

All  this  sensuous  blending  of  warmth  and  force  in 
winds  and  waters  more  and  more  suggests  an  idea  of 
the  spiritualism  of  elements, — a  sense  of  world-life.  In 
all  these  soft  sleepy  swayings,  these  caresses  of  wind  and 
sobbing  of  waters,  Nature  seems  to  confess  some  pas- 
sional mood.  Passengers  converse  of  pleasant  tempting 
things, — tropical  fruits,  tropical  beverages,  tropical  mount- 
ain-breezes, tropical  women. ...  It  is  a  time  for  dreams — 
those  day-dreams  that  come  gently  as  a  mist,  with  ghostly 
realization  of  hopes,  desires,  ambitions.  .  .  .  Men  sailing 
to  the  mines  of  Guiana  dream  of  gold. 

The  wind  seems  to  grow  continually  warmer ;  the  spray 
feels  warm  like  blood.  Awnings  have  to  be  clewed  up, 
and  wind-sails  taken  in  ; — still,  there  are  no  white-caps, — 
only  the  enormous  swells,  too  broad  to  see,  as  the  ocean 
falls  and  rises  like  a  dreamer's  breast.  .  .  . 

The  sunset  comes  with  a  great  burning  yellow  glow, 
fading  up  through  faint  greens  to  lose  itself  in  violet 
light; — there  is  no  gloaming.  The  days  have  already 
become  shorter.  .  .  .  Through  the  open  ports,  as  we  lie 
down  to  sleep,  comes  a  great  whispering, — the  whisper- 
ing of  the  seas :  sounds  as  of  articulate  speech  under 
the  breath, — as  of  women  telling  secrets,  .  .  , 


2O  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 


V. 

FIFTH  day  out.  Trade-winds  from  the  south-east ;  a 
huge  tumbling  of  mountain-purple  waves ; — the  steamer 
careens  under  a  full  spread  of  canvas.  There  is  a  sense 
of  spring  in  the  wind  to-day, — something  that  makes  one 
think  of  the  bourgeoning  of  Northern  woods,  when  naked 
trees  first  cover  themselves  with  a  mist  of  tender  green, — 
something  that  recalls  the  first  bird-songs,  the  first  climb- 
ings  of  sap  to  sun,  and  gives  a  sense  of  vital  plenitude. 

. . .  Evening  fills  the  west  with  aureate  woolly  clouds,— 
the  wool  of  the  Fleece  of  Gold.  Then  Hesperus  beams 
like  another  moon,  and  the  stars  burn  very  brightly. 
Still  the  ship  bends  under  the  even  pressure  of  the 
warm  wind  in  her  sails ;  and  her  wake  becomes  a  trail 
of  fire.  Large  sparks  dash  up  through  it  continuously, 
like  an  effervescence  of  flame  ; — and  queer  broad  clouds 
of  pale  fire  swirl  by.  Far  out,  where  the  water  is  black 
as  pitch,  there  are  no  lights  :  it  seems  as  if  the  steamer 
were  only  grinding  out  sparks  with  her  keel,  striking  fire 
with  her  propeller. 

VI. 

SIXTH  day  out.  Wind  tepid  and  still  stronger,  but 
sky  very  clear.  An  indigo  sea,  with  beautiful  white-caps. 
The  ocean  color  is  deepening :  it  is  very  rich  now,  but  I 
think  less  wonderful  than  before  ; — it  is  an  opulent  pansy 
hue.  Close  by  the  ship  it  looks  black-blue, — the  color 
that  bewitches  in  certain  Celtic  eyes. 

There  is  a  feverishness  in  the  air ; — the  heat  is  growing 
heavy ;  the  least  exertion  provokes  perspiration ;  below- 
decks  the  air  is  like  the  air  of  an  oven.  Above-deck, 
however,  the  effect  of  all  this  light  and  heat  is  not  alto- 
gether disagreeable  ; — one  feels  that  vast  elemental  pow- 
ers are  near  at  hand,  and  that  the  blood  is  already  aware 
of  their  approach. 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  2 1 

All  day  the  pure  sky,  the  deepening  of  sea-color,  the 
lukewarm  wind.  Then  comes  a  superb  sunset !  There  is 
a  painting  in  the  west  wrought  of  cloud-colors, — a  dream 
of  high  carmine  cliffs  and  rocks  outlying  in  a  green  sea, 
which  lashes  their  bases  with  a  foam  of  gold.  .  .  . 

Even  after  dark  the  touch  of  the  wind  has  the  warmth 
of  flesh.  There  is  no  moon ;  the  sea-circle  is  black  as 
Acheron ;  and  our  phosphor  wake  reappears  quivering 
across  it, — seeming  to  reach  back  to  the  very  horizon.  It 
is  brighter  to-night, — looks  like  another  Via  Lactea, — with 
points  breaking  through  it  like  stars  in  a  nebula.  From 
our  prow  ripples  rimmed  with  fire  keep  fleeing  away  to 
right  and  left  into  the  night, — brightening  as  they  run, 
then  vanishing  suddenly  as  if  they  had  passed  over  a 
precipice.  Crests  of  swells  seem  to  burst  into  showers 
of  sparks,  and  great  patches  of  spume  catch  flame,  smoul- 
der through,  and  disappear.  .  .  .  The  Southern  Cross  is 
visible, — sloping  backward  and  sidewise,  as  if  propped 
against  the  vault  of  the  sky:  it  is  not  readily  discovered 
by  the  unfamiliarized  eye  ;  it  is  only  after  it  has  been  well 
pointed  out  to  you  that  you  discern  its  position.  Then 
you  find  it  is  only  the  suggestion  of  a  cross — four  stars 
set  almost  quadrangularly,  some  brighter  than  others. 

For  two  days  there  has  been  little  conversation  on 
board.  It  may  be  due  in  part  to  the  somnolent  influ- 
ence of  the  warm  wind, — in  part  to  the  ceaseless  booming 
of  waters  and  roar  of  rigging,  which  drown  men's  voices  ; 
but  I  fancy  it  is  much  more  due  to  the  impressions  of 
space  and  depth  and  vastness, — the  impressions  of  sea 
and  sky,  which  compel  something  akin  to  awe. 

VII. 

MORNING  over  the  Caribbean  Sea, — a  calm,  extremely 
dark-blue  sea.  There  "are  lands  in  sight, — high  lands, 
with  sharp,  peaked,  unfamiliar  outlines. 


22  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

We  passed  other  lands  in  the  darkness  :  they  no  doubt 
resembled  the  shapes  towering  up  around  us  now;  for 
these  are  evidently  volcanic  creations, — jagged,  coned, 
truncated,  eccentric.  Far  off  they  first  looked  a  very 
pale  gray ;  now,  as  the  light  increases,  they  change  hue 
a  little, — showing  misty  greens  and  smoky  blues.  They 
rise  very  sharply  from  the  sea  to  great  heights, — the  high- 
est point  always  with  a  cloud  upon  it; — they  thrust  out 
singular  long  spurs,  push  up  mountain  shapes  that  have 
an  odd  scooped-out  look.  Some,  extremely  far  away, 
seem,  as  they  catch  the  sun,  to  be  made  of  gold  vapor ; 
others  have  a  madderish  tone  :  these  are  colors  of  cloud. 
The  closer  we  approach  them,  the  more  do  tints  of  green 
make  themselves  visible.  Purplish  or  bluish  masses  of 
coast  slowly  develop  green  surfaces ;  folds  and  wrinkles 
of  land  turn  brightly  verdant.  Still,  the  color  gleams  as 
through  a  thin  fog. 

.  .  .  The  first  tropical  visitor  has  just  boarded  our  ship : 
a  wonderful  fly,  shaped  like  a  common  fly,  but  at  least 
five  times  larger.  His  body  is  a  beautiful  shining  black; 
his  wings  seem  ribbed  and  jointed  with  silver,  his  head 
is  jewel-green,  with  exquisitely  cut  emeralds  for  eyes. 

Islands  pass  and  disappear  behind  us.  The  sun  has 
now  risen  well ;  the  sky  is  a  rich  blue,  and  the  tardy 
moon  still  hangs  in  it.  Lilac  tones  show  through  the 
water.  In  the  south  there  are  a  few  straggling  small 
white  clouds, — like  a  long  flight  of  birds.  A  great  gray 
mountain  shape  looms  up  before  us.  We  are  steaming 
on  Santa  Cruz. 

The  island  has  a  true  volcanic  outline,  sharp  and  high  : 
the  cliffs  sheer  down  almost  perpendicularly.  The  shape 
is  still  vapory,  varying  in  coloring  from  purplish  to  bright 
gray ;  but  wherever  peaks  and  spurs  fully  catch  the  sun 
they  edge  themselves  with  a  beautiful  green  glow,  while 
interlying  ravines  seem  filled  with  foggy  blue. 

As  we  approach,  sunlighted  surfaces  come  out  still 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  23 

more  luminously  green.  Glens  and  sheltered  valleys  still 
hold  blues  and  grays ;  but  points  fairly  illuminated  by 
the  solar  glow  show  just  such  a  fiery  green  as  burns  in 
the  plumage  of  certain  humming-birds.  And  just  as  the 
lustrous  colors  of  these  birds  shift  according  to  changes 
of  light,  so  the  island  shifts  colors  here  and  there, — from 
emerald  to  blue,  and  blue  to  gray.  .  .  .  But  now  we  are 
near  :  it  shows  us  a  lovely  heaping  of  high  bright  hills  in 
front, — with  a  further  coast-line  very  low  and  long  and 
verdant,  fringed  with  a  white  beach,  and  tufted  with  spi- 
dery palm-crests.  Immediately  opposite,  other  palms  are 
poised ;  their  trunks  look  like  pillars  of  unpolished  sil- 
ver, their  leaves  shimmer  like  bronze. 

.  .  .  The  water  of  the  harbor  is  transparent  and  pale 
green.  One  can  see  many  fish,  and  some  small  sharks. 
White  butterflies  are  fluttering  about  us  in  the  blue  air. 
Naked  black  boys  are  bathing  on  the  beach ; — they  swim 
well,  but  will  not  venture  out  far  because  of  the  sharks. 
A  boat  puts  off  to  bring  colored  girls  on  board.  They 
are  tall,  and  not  uncomely,  although  very  dark ; — they 
coax  us,  with  all  sorts  of  endearing  words,  to  purchase 
bay  rum.  fruits,  Florida  water.  .  .  .  We  go  ashore  in  boats. 
The  water  of  the  harbor  has  a  slightly  fetid  odor. 


VIII. 

VIEWED  from  the  bay,  under  the  green  shadow  of  the 
hills  overlooking  it,  Frederiksted  has  the  appearance  of 
a  beautiful  Spanish  town,  with  its  Romanesque  piazzas, 
churches,  many  arched  buildings  peeping  through  breaks 
in  a  line  of  mahogany,  bread-fruit,  mango,  tamarind,  and 
palm  trees, — an  irregular  mass  of  at  least  fifty  different 
tints,  from  a  fiery  emerald  to  a  sombre  bluish -green. 
But  on  entering  the  streets  the  illusion  of  beauty  passes  : 
you  find  yourself  in  a  crumbling,  decaying  town,  with 
buildings  only  two  stories  high.  The  lower  part,  of 


24  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

arched  Spanish  design,  is  usually  of  lava  rock  or  of  brick, 
painted  a  light,  warm  yellow ;  the  upper  stories  are  most 
commonly  left  unpainted,  and  are  rudely  constructed  of 
light  timber.  There  are  many  heavy  arcades  and  courts 
opening  on  the  streets  with  large  archways.  Lava 
blocks  have  been  used  in  paving  as  well  as  in  building ; 
and  more  than  one  of  the  narrow  streets,  as  it  slopes  up 
the  hill  through  the  great  light,  is  seen  to  cut  its  way 
through  craggy  masses  of  volcanic  stone. 

But  all  the  buildings  look  dilapidated ;  the  stucco  and 
paint  is  falling  or  peeling  everywhere  ;  there  are  fissures 
in  the  walls,  crumbling  facades,  tumbling  roofs.  The 
first  stories,  built  with  solidity  worthy  of  an  earthquake 
region,  seem  extravagantly  heavy  by  contrast  with  the 
frail  wooden  superstructures.  One  reason  may  be  that 
the  city  was  burned  and  sacked  during  a  negro  revolt  in 
1878  ; — the  Spanish  basements  resisted  the  fire  well,  and 
it  was  found  necessary  to  rebuild  only  the  second  stories 
of  the  buildings  ;  but  the  work  was  done  cheaply  and 
flimsily,  not  massively  and  enduringly,  as  by  the  first 
colonial  builders. 

There  is  great  wealth  of  verdure.  Cabbage  and  co- 
coa palms  overlook  all  the  streets,  bending  above  al- 
most every  structure,  whether  hut  or  public  building; — 
everywhere  you  see  the  splitted  green  of  banana  leaves. 
In  the  court-yards  you  may  occasionally  catch  sight  of 
some  splendid  palm  with  silver-gray  stem  so  barred  as 
to  look  jointed,  like  the  body  of  an  annelid. 

In  the  market-place — a  broad  paved  square,  crossed 
by  two  rows  of  tamarind-trees,  and  bounded  on  one  side 
by  a  Spanish  piazza — you  can  study  a  spectacle  of  sav- 
age picturesqueness.  There  are  no  benches,  no  stalls, 
no  booths  ;  the  dealers  stand,  sit,  or  squat  upon  the 
ground  under  the  sun,  or  upon  the  steps  of  the  neigh- 
boring  arcade.  Their  wares  are  piled  up  at  their  feet, 
for  the  most  part.  Some  few  have  little  tables,  but  as  a 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  25 

rule  the  eatables  are  simply  laid  on  the  dusty  ground  or 
heaped  upon  the  steps  of  the  piazza — reddish-yellow  man- 
goes, that  look  like  great  apples  squeezed  out  of  shape, 
bunches  of  bananas,  pyramids  of  bright-green  cocoanuts, 
immense  golden-green  oranges,  and  various  other  fruits 
and  vegetables  totally  unfamiliar  to  Northern  eyes.  .  .  . 
It  is  no  use  to  ask  questions — the  black  dealers  speak 
no  dialect  comprehensible  outside  of  the  Antilles :  it  is 
a  negro-English  that  sounds  like  some  African  tongue, — 
a  rolling  current  of  vowels  and  consonants,  pouring  so 
rapidly  that  the  inexperienced  ear  cannot  detach  one  in- 
telligible word.  A  friendly  white  coming  up  enabled  me 
to  learn  one  phrase  :  "  Massa,  youwancocknerfoobuy  ?" 
(Master,  do  you  want  to  buy  a  cocoanut  ?) 

The  market  is  quite  crowded, — full  of  bright  color  un- 
der the  tremendous  noon  light.  Buyers  and  dealers  are 
generally  black ; — very  few  yellow  or  brown  people  are 
visible  in  the  gathering.  The  greater  number  present 
are  women  ;  they  are  very  simply,  almost  savagely,  garbed 
— only  a  skirt  or  petticoat,  over  which  is  worn  a  sort  of 
calico  short  dress,  which  scarcely  descends  two  inches 
below  the  hips,  and  is  confined  about  the  waist  with  a 
belt  or  a  string.  The  skirt  bells  out  like  the  skirt  of  a 
dancer,  leaving  the  feet  and  bare  legs  well  exposed;  and 
the  head  is  covered  with  a  white  handkerchief,  twisted 
so  as  to  look  like  a  turban.  Multitudes  of  these  bare- 
legged black  women  are  walking  past  us, — carrying  bun- 
dles or  baskets  upon  their  heads,  and  smoking  very  long 
cigars. 

They  are  generally  short  and  thick-set,  and  walk  with 
surprising  erectness,  and  with  long,  firm  steps,  car- 
rying the  bosom  well  forward.  Their  limbs  are  strong 
and  finely  rounded.  Whether  walking  or  standing,  their 
poise  is  admirable, — might  be  called  graceful,  were  it  not 
for  the  absence  of  real  grace  of  form  in  such  compact, 
powerful  little  figures.  All  wear  brightly  colored  cotton- 


26  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

ade  stuffs,  and  the  general  effect  of  the  costume  in  a 
large  gathering  is  very  agreeable,  the  dominant  hues  be- 
ing pink,  white,  and  blue.  Half  the  women  are  smoking. 
All  chatter  loudly,  speaking  their  English  jargon  with  a 
pitch  of  voice  totally  unlike  the  English  timbre  :  it  some- 
times sounds  as  if  they  were  trying  to  pronounce  English 
rapidly  according  to  French  pronunciation  and  pitch  of 
voice. 

These  green  oranges  have  a  delicious  scent  and  amaz- 
ing juiciness.  Peeling  one  of  them  is  sufficient  to  per- 
fume the  skin  of  the  hands  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  how- 
ever often  one  may  use  soap  and  water.  .  .  .  We  smoke 
Porto  Rico  cigars,  and  drink  West  Indian  lemonades, 
strongly  flavored  with  rum.  The  tobacco  has  a  rich, 
sweet  taste ;  the  rum  is  velvety,  sugary,  with  a  pleas- 
ant, soothing  effect:  both  have  a  rich  aroma.  There  is 
a  wholesome  originality  about  the  flavor  of  these  prod- 
ucts, a  uniqueness  which  certifies  to  their  naif  purity : 
something  as  opulent  and  frank  as  the  juices  and  odors 
of  tropical  fruits  and  flowers. 

The  streets  leading  from  the  plaza  glare  violently  in 
the  strong  sunlight; — the  ground,  almost  dead-white,  daz- 
zles the  eyes. .  .  .  There  are  few  comely  faces  visible, — in 
the  streets  all  are  black  who  pass.  But  through  open 
shop-doors  one  occasionally  catches  glimpses  of  a  pretty 
quadroon  face, — with  immense  black  eyes, — a  face  yel- 
low like  a  ripe  banana. 

...  It  is  now  after  mid-day.  Looking  up  to  the  hills, 
or  along  sloping  streets  towards  the  shore,  wonderful  va- 
riations of  foliage-color  meet  the  eye  :  gold-greens,  sap- 
greens,  bluish  and  metallic  greens  of  many  tints,  reddish- 
greens,  yellowish-greens.  The  cane-fields  are  broad  sheets 
of  beautiful  gold-green ;  and  nearly  as  bright  are  the  mass- 
es offlvmme-camieMetYondescence,  the  groves  of  lemon  and 
orange ;  while  tamarind  and  mahoganies  are  heavily  som- 
bre. Everywhere  palm-crests  soar  above  the  wood-lines, 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  27 

and  tremble  with  a  metallic  shimmering  in  the  blue  light. 
Up  through  a  ponderous  thickness  of  tamarind  rises  the 
spire  of  the  church ;  a  skeleton  of  open  stone-work,  with- 
out glasses  or  lattices  or  shutters  of  any  sort  for  its  naked 
apertures :  it  is  all  open  to  the  winds  of  heaven  ;  it  seems 
to  be  gasping  with  all  its  granite  mouths  for  breath — 
panting  in  this  azure  heat.  In  the  bay  the  water  looks 
greener  than  ever:  it  is  so  clear  that  the  light  passes  un- 
der every  boat  and  ship  to  the  very  bottom ;  the  vessels 
only  cast  very  thin  green  shadows, — so  transparent  that 
fish  can  be  distinctly  seen  passing  through  from  sun- 
light to  sunlight. 

The  sunset  offers  a  splendid  spectacle  of  pure  color; 
there  is  only  an  immense  yellow  glow  in  the  west, — a 
lemon -colored  blaze;  but  when  it  melts  into  the  blue 
there  is  an  exquisite  green  light.  .  .  .  We  leave  to-morrow. 

.  .  .  Morning  :  the  green  hills  are  looming  in  a  bluish 
vapor  :  the  long  faint-yellow  slope  of  beach  to  the  left  of 
the  town,  under  the  mangoes  and  tamarinds,  is  already 
thronged  with  bathers, — all  men  or  boys,  and  all  naked : 
black,  brown,  yellow,  arid  white.  The  white  bathers  are 
Danish  soldiers  from  the  barracks ;  the  Northern  bright- 
ness of  their  skins  forms  an  almost  startling  contrast 
with  the  deep  colors  of  the  nature  about  them,  and  with 
the  dark  complexions  of  the  natives.  Some  very  slender, 
graceful  brown  lads  are  bathing  with  them, — lightly  built 
as  deer  :  these  are  probably  Creoles.  Some  of  the  black 
bathers  are  clumsy-looking,  and  have  astonishingly  long 
legs.  .  .  .  Then  little  boys  come  down,  leading  horses ; — 
they  strip,  leap  naked  on  the  animals'  backs,  and  ride 
into  the  sea, — yelling,  screaming,  splashing,  in  the  morn- 
ing light.  Some  are  a  fine  brown  color,  like  old  bronze. 
Nothing  could  be  more  statuesque  than  the  unconscious 
attitudes  of  these  bronze  bodies  in  leaping,  wrestling,  run- 
ning, pitching  shells.  Their  simple  grace  is  in  admi- 
rable harmony  with  that  of  Nature's  green  creations 


28  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

about  them, — rhymes  faultlessly  with  the  perfect  self-bal- 
ance of  the  palms  that  poise  along  the  shore.  .  .  . 

Boom  !  and  a  thunder-rolling  of  echoes.  We  move  slow- 
ly out  of  the  harbor,  then  swiftly  towards  the  south- 
east. .  .  .  The  island  seems  to  turn  slowly  half  round; 
then  to  retreat  from  us.  Across  our  way  appears  a  long 
band  of  green  light,  reaching  over  the  sea  like  a  thin  pro- 
traction of  color  from  the  extended  spur  of  verdure  in 
which  the  western  end  of  the  island  terminates.  That 
is  a  sunken  reef,  and  a  dangerous  one.  Lying  high 
upon  it,  in  very  sharp  relief  against  the  blue  light,  is 
a  wrecked  vessel  on  her  beam-ends, — the  carcass  of  a 
brig.  Her  decks  have  been  broken  in ;  the  roofs  of 
her  cabins  are  gone  ;  her  masts  are  splintered  off  short ; 
her  empty  hold  yawns  naked  to  the  sun  ;  all  her  upper 
parts  have  taken  a  yellowish-white  color, — the  color  of 
sun-bleached  bone. 

Behind  us  the  mountains  still  float  back.  Their  shin- 
ing green  has  changed  to  a  less  vivid  hue  ;  they  are  tak- 
ing bluish  tones  here  and  there  ;  but  their  outlines  are 
still  sharp,  and  along  their  high  soft  slopes  there  are 
white  specklings,  which  are  villages  and  towns.  These 
white  specks  diminish  swiftly, — dwindle  to  the  dimen- 
sions of  salt-grains, —  finally  vanish.  Then  the  island 
grows  uniformly  bluish ;  it  becomes  cloudy,  vagtie  as  a 
dream  of  mountains  ; — it  turns  at  last  gray  as  smoke,  and 
then  melts  into  the  horizon-light  like  a  mirage. 

Another  yellow  sunset,  made  weird  by  extraordinary 
black,  dense,  fantastic  shapes  of  cloud.  Night  darkens, 
and  again  the  Southern  Cross  glimmers  before  our  prow, 
and  the  two  Milky  Ways  reveal  themselves, — that  of  the 
Cosmos  and  that  ghostlier  one  which  stretches  over  the 
black  deep  behind  us.  This  alternately  broadens  and 
narrows  at  regular  intervals,  concomitantly  with  the  rhyth- 
mical swing  of  the  steamer.  Before  us  the  bows  spout 
fire;  behind  us  there  is  a  flaming  and  roaring  as  of  Phleg- 


A  MidsUirtfrier  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  29 

ethori ;  and  the  voices  of  wind  and  sea  become  so  loud 
that  we  cannot  talk  to  one  another, — cannot  make  our 
words  heard  even  by  shouting. 


IX. 

EARLY  morning:  the  eighth  day.  Moored  in  an- 
other blue  harbor, — a  great  semicircular  basin,  bounded 
by  a  high  billowing  of  hills  all  green  from  the  fringe  of 
yellow  beach  up  to  their  loftiest  clouded  summit.  The 
land  has  that  up-tossed  look  which  tells  a  volcanic  ori- 
gin. There  are  curiously  scalloped  heights,  which,  though 
emerald  from  base  to  crest,  still  retain  all  the  physiog- 
nomy of  volcanoes :  their  ribbed  sides  must  be  lava  un- 
der that  verdure.  Out  of  sight  westward — in  successions 
of  bright  green,  pale  green,  bluish -green,  and  vapory 
gray — stretches  a  long  chain  of  crater  shapes.  Trun- 
cated, jagged,  or  rounded,  all  these  elevations  are  in- 
terunited  by  their  curving  hollows  of  land  or  by  fila- 
ments,— very  low  valleys.  And  as  they  grade  away  in 
varying  color  through  distance,  these  hill-chains  take  a 
curious  segmented,  jointed  appearance,  like  insect  forms, 
enormous  ant-bodies.  .  .  .  This  is  St.  Kitt's. 

We  row  ashore  over  a  tossing  dark-blue  water,  and 
leaving  the  long  wharf,  pass  under  a  great  arch  and  over 
a  sort  of  bridge  into  the  town  of  Basse-Terre,  through  a 
concourse  of  brown  and  black  people. 

It  is  very  tropical  -  looking ;  but  more  sombre  than 
Frederiksted.  There  are  palms  everywhere, — cocoa,  fan, 
and  cabbage  palms ;  many  bread-fruit  trees,  tamarinds, 
bananas,  Indian  fig-trees,  mangoes,  and  unfamiliar  things 
the  negroes  call  by  incomprehensible  names,  — "  sap- 
saps,"  "  dhool-dhools."  But  there  is  less  color,  less  re- 
flection of  light  than  in  Santa  Cruz  ;  there  is  less  quaint- 
ness  ;  no  Spanish  buildings,  no  canary-colored  arcades. 
All  the  narrow  streets  are.  gray  or  neutral-tinted ;  the 


3O  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

ground  has  a  dark  ashen  tone.  Most  of  the  dwellings 
are  timber,  resting  on  brick  props,  or  elevated  upon 
blocks  of  lava  rock.  It  seems  almost  as  if  some  breath 
from  the  enormous  and  always  clouded  mountain  over- 
looking the  town  had  begrimed  everything,  darkening 
even  the  colors  of  vegetation. 

The  population  is  not  picturesque.  The  costumes  are 
commonplace ;  the  tints  of  the  women's  attire  are  dull. 
Browns  and  sombre  blues  and  grays  are  commoner  than 
pinks,  yellows,  and  violets.  Occasionally  you  observe  a 
fine  half-breed  type — some  tall  brown  girl  walking  by 
with  a  swaying  grace  like  that  of  a  sloop  at  sea ; — but 
such  spectacles  are  not  frequent.  Most  of  those  you 
meet  are  black  or  a  blackish  brown.  Many  stores  are 
kept  by  yellow  men  with  intensely  black  hair  and  eyes, — 
men  who  do  not  smile.  These  are  Portuguese.  There 
are  some  few  fine  buildings  ;  but  the  most  pleasing  sight 
the  little  town  can  offer  the  visitor  is  the  pretty  Botani- 
cal Garden,  with  its  banyans  and  its  palms,  its  monstrous 
lilies  and  extraordinary  fruit-trees,  and  its  beautiful  lit- 
tle fountains.  From  some  of  these  trees  a  peculiar  til- 
landsia  streams  down,  much  like  our  Spanish  moss, — but 
it  is  black ! 

...  As  we  move  away  southwardly,  the  receding  out- 
lines of  the  island  look  more  and  more  volcanic.  A  chain 
of  hills  and  cones,  all  very  green,  and  connected  by  strips 
of  valley-land  so  low  that  the  edge  of  the  sea-circle  on 
the  other  side  of  the  island  can  be  seen  through  the  gaps. 
We  steam  past  truncated  hills,  past  heights  that  have 
the  look  of  the  stumps  of  peaks  cut  half  down, — ancient 
fire-mouths  choked  by  tropical  verdure. 

Southward,  above  and  beyond  the  deep-green  chain, 
tower  other  volcanic  forms, — very  far  away,  and  so  pale- 
gray  as  to  seem  like  clouds.  Those  are  the  heights  of 
Nevis, — another  creation  of  the  subterranean  fires. 

It  draws  nearer,  floats  steadily  into  definition :  a  great 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  31 

mountain  flanked  by  two  small  ones ;  three  summits ; 
the  loftiest,  with  clouds  packed  high  upon  it,  still  seems 
to  smoke ; — the  second  highest  displays  the  most  sym- 
metrical crater-form  T  have  yet  seen.  All  are  still  gray- 
ish -  blue  or  gray.  Gradually  through  the  blues  break 
long  Tiigh  gleams  of  green. 

As  we  steam  closer,  the  island  becomes  all  verdant 
from  flood  to  sky ;  the  great  dead  crater  shows  its  im- 
mense wreath  of  perennial  green.  On  the  lower  slopes 
little  settlements  are  sprinkled  in  white,  red,  and  brown : 
houses,  windmills,  sugar-factories,  high  chimneys  are  dis- 
tinguishable ; — cane -plantations  unfold  gold -green  sur- 
faces. 

We  pass  away.  The  island  does  not  seem  to  sink  be- 
hind us,  but  to  become  a  ghost.  All  its  outlines  grow 
shadowy.  For  a  little  while  it  continues  green ; — but  it  is 
a  hazy,  spectral  green,  as  of  colored  vapor.  The  sea  to- 
day looks  almost  black :  the  south-west  wind  has  rilled 
the  day  with  luminous  mist ;  and  the  phantom  of  Nevis 
melts  in  the  vast  glow,  dissolves  utterly.  .  .  .  Once  more 
we  are  out  of  sight  of  land, — in  the  centre  of  a  blue-black 
circle  of  sea.  The  water-line  cuts  blackly  against  the 
immense  light  of  the  horizon, — a  huge  white  glory  that 
flames  up  very  high  before  it  fades  and  melts  into  the 
eternal  blue. 

X. 

THEN  a  high  white  shape  like  a  cloud  appears  before 
us, — on  the  purplish-dark  edge  of  the  sea.  The  cloud- 
shape  enlarges,  heightens  without  changing  contour.  It 
is  not  a  cloud,  but  an  island !  Its  outlines  begin  to 
sharpen, — with  faintest  pencillings  of  color.  Shadowy 
valleys  appear,  spectral  hollows,  phantom  slopes  of  pal- 
lid blue  or  green.  The  apparition  is  so  like  a  mirage 
that  it  is  difficult  to  persuade  oneself  one  is  looking  at 
real  land,— that  it  is  not  a  dream.  It  seems  to  have 
3 


32  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

shaped  itself  all  suddenly  out  of  the  glowing  haze.  We 
pass  many  miles  beyond  it ;  and  it  vanishes  into  mist 
again. 

.  .  .  Another  and  a  larger  ghost ;  but  we  steam  straight 
upon  it  until  it  materializes, —  Montserrat.  It  bears  a 
family  likeness  to  the  islands  we  have  already  passed — 
one  dominant  height,  with  massing  of  bright  crater  shapes 
about  it,  and  ranges  of  green  hills  linked  together  by  low 
valleys.  About  its  highest  summit  also  hovers  a  flock 
of  clouds.  At  the  foot  of  the  vast  hill  nestles  the  little 
white  and  red  town  of  Plymouth.  The  single  salute 
of  our  gun  is  answered  by  a  stupendous  broadside  of 
echoes. 

Plymouth  is  more  than  half  hidden  in  the  rich  foliage 
that  fringes  the  wonderfully  wrinkled  green  of  the  hills 
at  their  base  ; — it  has  a  curtain  of  palms  before  it.  Ap- 
proaching, you  discern  only  one  or  two  facades  above  the 
sea-wall,  and  the  long  wharf  projecting  through  an  open- 
ing in  the  masonry,  over  which  young  palms  stand  thick 
as  canes  on  a  sugar  plantation.  But  on  reaching  the 
street  that  descends  towards  the  heavily  bowldered  shore 
you  find  yourself  in  a  delightfully  drowsy  little  burgh, — a 
miniature  tropical  town, — with  very  narrow  paved  ways,' — 
steep,  irregular,  full  of  odd  curves  and  angles, — and  like- 
wise of  tiny  courts  everywhere  sending  up  jets  of  palm- 
plumes,  or  displaying  above  their  stone  enclosures  great 
candelabra- shapes  of  cacti.  All  is  old-fashioned  and 
quiet  and  queer  and  small.  Even  the  palms  are  dimin- 
utive,— slim  and  delicate  ;  there  is  a  something  in  their 
poise  and  slenderness  like  the  charm  of  young  girls  who 
have  not  yet  ceased  to  be  children,  though  soon  to  be- 
come women.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  glorious  sunset, — a  fervid  orange  splendor, 
shading  starward  into  delicate  roses  and  greens.  Then 
black  boatmen  come  astern  and  quarrel  furiously  for  the 
privilege  of  carrying  one  passenger  ashore ;  and  as  they 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  33 

scream    and   gesticulate,  half   naked,   their   silhouettes 
against  the  sunset  seem  forms  of  great  black  apes. 

.  .  .  Under  steam  and  sail  we  are  making  south  again, 
with  a  warm  wind  blowing  south-east, — a  wind  very  moist, 
very  powerful,  and  soporific.  Facing  it,  one  feels  almost 
cool ;  but  the  moment  one  is  sheltered  from  it  profuse 
perspiration  bursts  out.  The  ship  rocks  over  immense 
swells  ;  night  falls  very  blackly ;  and  there  are  surpris- 
ing displays  of  phosphorescence. 


XL 

.  .  .  MORNING.  A  gold  sunrise  over  an  indigo  sea. 
The  wind  is  a  great  warm  caress;  the  sky  a  spotless  blue. 
We  are  steaming  on  Dominica, — the  loftiest  of  the  lesser 
Antilles.  While  the  silhouette  is  yet  all  violet  in  dis- 
tance, nothing  more  solemnly  beautiful  can  well  be  imag- 
ined :  a  vast  cathedral  shape,  whose  spires  are  mountain 
peaks,  towering  in  the  horizon,  sheer  up  from  the  sea. 

We  stay  at  Roseau  only  long  enough  to  land  the  mails, 
and  wonder  at  the  loveliness  of  the  island.  A  beautifully 
wrinkled  mass  of  green  and  blue  and  gray ; — a  strangely 
abrupt  peaking  and  heaping  of  the  land.  Behind  the 
green  heights  loom  the  blues ;  behind  these  the  grays — 
all  pinnacled  against  the  sky-glow — thrusting  up  through 
gaps  or  behind  promontories.  Indescribably  exquisite 
the  foldings  and  hollowings  of  the  emerald  coast.  In 
glen  and  vale  the  color  of  cane-fields  shines  like  a  pool- 
ing of  fluid  bronze,  as  if  the  luminous  essence  of  the  hill 
tints  had  been  dripping  down  and  clarifying  there.  Far 
to  our  left,  a  bright  green  spur  pierces  into  the  now  tur- 
quoise sea ;  and  beyond  it,  a  beautiful  mountain  form, 
blue  and  curved  like  a  hip,  slopes  seaward,  showing  light- 
ed wrinkles  here  and  there,  of  green.  And  from  the  fore- 
ground, against  the  blue  of  the  softly  outlined  shape,  co- 
coa-palms are  curving, — all  sharp  and  shining  in  the  sun. 


34  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

.  .  .  Another  hour ;  and  Martinique  looms  before  us. 
At  first  it  appears  all  gray,  a  vapory  gray ;  then  it  be- 
comes bluish-gray ;  then  all  green. 

It  is  another  of  the  beautiful  volcanic  family:  it  owns 
the  same  hill  shapes  with  which  we  have  already  become 
acquainted;  its  uppermost  height  is  hooded  with  the  fa- 
miliar cloud ;  we  see  the  same  gold-yellow  plains,  the  same 
wonderful  varieties  of  verdancy,  the  same  long  green  spurs 
reaching  out  into  the  sea, — doubtless  formed  by  old  lava 
torrents.  But  all  this  is  now  repeated  for  us  more  impos- 
ingly, more  grandiosely; — it  is  wrought  upon  a  larger  scale 
than  anything  we  have  yet  seen.  The  semicircular  sweep 
of  the  harbor,  dominated  by  the  eternally  veiled  summit 
of  the  Montagne  Pelee  (misnamed,  since  it  is  green  to  the 
very  clouds),  from  which  the  land  slopes  down  on  either 
hand  to  the  sea  by  gigantic  undulations,  is  one  of  the 
fairest  sights  that  human  eye  can  gaze  upon.  Thus  view- 
ed, the  whole  island  shape  is  a  mass  of  green,  with  pur- 
plish streaks  and  shadowings  here  and  there  :  glooms  of 
forest-hollows,  or  moving  umbrages  of  cloud.  The  city 
of  St.  Pierre,  on  the  edge  of  the  land,  looks  as  if  it  had 
slided  down  the  hill  behind  it,  so  strangely  do  the  streets 
come  tumbling  to  the  port  in  cascades  of  masonry, — 
with  a  red  billowing  of  tiled  roofs  over  all,  and  enormous 
palms  poking  up  through  it, — higher  even  than  the  creamy 
white  twin  towers  of  its  cathedral. 

We  anchor  in  limpid  blue  water;  the  cannon-shot  is  an- 
swered by  a  prolonged  thunder-clapping  of  mountain  echo. 

Then  from  the  shore  a  curious  flotilla  bears  down  upon 
us.  There  is  one  boat,  two  or  three  canoes  ;  but  the  bulk 
of  the  craft  are  simply  wooden  frames,  —  flat-bottomed 
structures,  made  from  shipping-cases  or  lard-boxes,  with 
triangular  ends.  In  these  sit  naked  boys, — boys  between 
ten  and  fourteen  years  of  age, — varying  in  color  from 
a  fine  clear  yellow  to  a  deep  reddish  -  brown  or  choco- 
late tint.  They  row  with  two  little  square,  flat  pieces  of 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  35 

wood  for  paddles,  clutched  in  each  hand;  and  these  lid- 
shaped  things  are  dipped  into  the  water  on  either  side  with 
absolute  precision,  in  perfect  time, — all  the  pairs  of  little 
naked  arms  seeming  moved  by  a  single  impulse.  There 
is  much  unconscious  grace  in  this  paddling,  as  well  as 
skill.  Then  all  about  the  ship  these  ridiculous  little 
boats  begin  to  describe  circles, — crossing  and  intercross- 
ing so  closely  as  almost  to  bring  them  into  collision,  yet 
never  touching.  The  boys  have  simply  come  out  to  dive 
for  coins  they  expect  passengers  to  fling  to  them.  All 
are  chattering  Creole,  laughing  and  screaming  shrilly; 
every  eye,  quick  and  bright  as  a  bird's,  watches  the  faces 
of  the  passengers  on  deck.  "'Tention-la !"  shriek  a 
dozen  soprani.  Some  passenger's  fingers  have  entered 
his  vest-pocket,  and  the  boys  are  on  the  alert.  Through 
the  air,  twirling  and  glittering,  tumbles  an  English  shil- 
ling, and  drops  into  the  deep  water  beyond  the  little 
fleet.  Instantly  all  the  lads  leap,  scramble,  topple  head- 
foremost out  of  their  little  tubs,  and  dive  in  pursuit.  In 
the  blue  water  their  lithe  figures  look  perfectly  red, — al-1 
but  the  soles  of  their  upturned  feet,  which  show  nearly 
white.  Almost  immediately  they  all  rise  again  :  one 
holds  up  at  arm's-length  above  the  water  the  recovered 
coin,  and  then  puts  it  into  his  mouth  for  safe-keeping. 
Coin  after  coin  is  thrown  in,  and  as  speedily  brought 
up ;  a  shower  of  small  silver  follows,  and  not  a  piece  is 
lost.  These  lads  move  through  the  water  without  ap- 
parent effort,  with  the  suppleness  of  fishes.  Most  are 
decidedly  fine -looking  boys,  with  admirably  rounded 
limbs,  delicately  formed  extremities.  The  best  diver 
and  swiftest  swimmer,  however,  is  a  red  lad  ; — his  face  is 
rather  commonplace,  but  his  slim  body  has  the  grace  of 
an  antique  bronze. 

.  .  .  We  are  ashore  in  St.  Pierre,  the  quaintest,  queer- 
est, and  the  prettiest  withal,  among  West  Indian  cities : 


36  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

all  stone-built  and  stone-flagged,  with  very  narrow  streets, 
wooden  or  zinc  awnings,  and  peaked  roofs,  of  red  tile, 
pierced  by  gabled  dormers.  Most  of  the  buildings  are 
painted  in  a  clear  yellow  tone,  which  contrasts  delight- 
fully with  the  burning  blue  ribbon  of  tropical  sky  above ; 
and  no  street  is  absolutely  level ;  nearly  all  of  them  climb 
hills,  descend  into  hollows,  curve,  twist,  describe  sudden 
angles.  There  is  everywhere  a  loud  murmur  of  running 
water, — pouring  through  the  deep  gutters  contrived  be- 
tween the  paved  thoroughfare  and  the  absurd  little  side- 
walks, varying  in  width  from  one  to  three  feet.  The 
architecture  is  quite  old :  it  is  seventeenth  century,  prob- 
ably; and  it  reminds  one  a  great  deal  of  that  character- 
izing the  antiquated  French  quarter  of  New  Orleans. 
All  the  tints,  the  forms,  the  vistas,  would  seem  to  have 
been  especially  selected  or  designed  for  aquarelle  stud- 
ies,— just  to  please  the  whim  of  some  extravagant  artist. 
The  windows  are  frameless  openings  without  glass ;  some 
have  iron  bars ;  all  have  heavy  wooden  shutters  with 
movable  slats,  through  which  light  and  air  can  enter  as 
through  Venetian  blinds.  These  are  usually  painted 
green  or  bright  bluish-gray. 

So  steep  are  the  streets  descending  to  the  harbor, — 
by  flights  of  old  mossy  stone  steps, — that  looking  down 
them  to  the  azure  water  you  have  the  sensation  of  gazing 
from  a  cliff.  From  certain  openings  in  the  main  street — 
the  Rue  Victor  Hugo  —  you  can  get  something  like  a 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  harbor  with  its  shipping.  The 
roofs  of  the  street  below  are  under  your  feet,  and  other 
streets  are  rising  behind  you  to  meet  the  mountain  roads. 
They  climb  at  a  very  steep  angle,  occasionally  breaking 
into  stairs  of  lava  rock,  all  grass-tufted  and  moss-lined. 

The  town  has  an  aspect  of  great  solidity :  it  is  a  cre- 
ation of  crag — looks  almost  as  if  it  had  been  hewn  out 
of  one  mountain  fragment,  instead  of  having  been  con- 
structed stone  by  stone.  Although  commonly  consisting 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  37 

of  two  stories  and  an  attic  only,  the  dwellings  have  walls 
three  feet  in  thickness ; — on  one  street,  facing  the  sea, 
they  are  even  heavier,  and  slope  outward  like  ramparts, 
so  that  the  perpendicular  recesses  of  windows  and  doors 
have  the  appearance  of  being  opened  between  buttresses. 
It  may  have  been  partly  as  a  precaution  against  earth- 
quakes, and  partly  for  the  sake  of  coolness,  that  the 
early  colonial  architects  built  thus  ; — giving  the  city  a 
physiognomy  so  well  worthy  of  its  name, — the  name  of 
the  Saint  of  the  Rock. 

And  everywhere  rushes  mountain  water,  —  cool  and 
crystal  clear,  washing  the  streets; — from  time  to  time  you 
come  to  some  public  fountain  flinging  a  silvery  column 
to  the  sun,  or  showering  bright  spray  over  a  group  of 
black  bronze  tritons  or  bronze  swans.  The  Tritons  on 
the  Place  Bertin  you  will  not  readily  forget; — their  curv- 
ing torsos  might  have  been  modelled  from  the  forms  of 
those  ebon  men  who  toil  there  tirelessly  all  day  in  the 
great  heat,  rolling  hogsheads  of  sugar  or  casks  of  rum. 
And  often  you  will  note,  in  the  course  of  a  walk,  little 
drinking-fountains  contrived  at  the  angle  of  a  building, 
or  in  the  thick  walls  bordering  the  bulwarks  or  enclos- 
ing public  squares:  glittering  threads  of  water  spurting 
through  lion-lips  of  stone.  Some  mountain  torrent,  skil- 
fully directed  and  divided,  is  thus  perpetually  refresh- 
ing the  city,  —  supplying  its  fountains  and  cooling  its 
courts.  .  .  .  This  is  called  the  Gouyave  water :  it  is  not 
the  same  stream  which  sweeps  and  purifies  the  streets. 

Pfcturesqueness  and  color:  these  are  the  particular 
and  the  unrivalled  charms  of  St.  Pierre.  As  you  pursue 
the  Grande  Rue,  or  Rue  Victor  Hugo, — which  traverses 
the  town  through  all  its  length,  undulating  over  hill- 
slopes  and  into  hollows  and  over  a  bridge, — you  become 
more  and  more  enchanted  by  the  contrast  of  the  yellow- 
glowing  walls  to  right  and  left  with  the  jagged  strip  of 
gentian-blue  sky  overhead.  Charming  also  it  is  to  watch 


38  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

the  cross -streets  climbing  up  to  the  fiery  green  of  the 
mountains  behind  the  town.  On  the  lower  side  of  the 
main  thoroughfare  other  streets  open  in  wonderful  bursts 
of  blue — warm  blue  of  horizon  and  sea.  The  steps  by 
which  these  ways  descend  towards  the  bay  are  black  with 
age,  and  slightly  mossed  close  to  the  wall  on  either  side : 
they  have  an  alarming  steepness, — one  might  easily  stum- 
ble from  the  upper  into  the  lower  street.  Looking  tow- 
ards the  water  through  these  openings  from  the  Grande 
Rue,  you  will  notice  that  the  sea-line  cuts  across  the  blue 
space  just  at  the  level  of  the  upper  story  of  the  house  on 
the  lower  street-corner.  Sometimes,  a  hundred  feet  be- 
low, you  see  a  ship  resting  in  the  azure  aperture, — seem- 
ingly suspended  there  in  sky-color,  floating  in  blue  light. 
And  everywhere  and  always,  through  sunshine  or  shad- 
ow, comes  to  you  the  scent  of  the  city, — the  characteris- 
tic odor  of  St.  Pierre ; — a  compound  odor  suggesting  the 
intermingling  of  sugar  and  garlic  in  those  strange  tropical 
dishes  which  Creoles  love.  . 


XII. 

...  A  POPULATION  fantastic,  astonishing, — a  popula- 
tion of  the  Arabian  Nights.  It  is  many-colored  ;  but  the 
general  dominant  tint  is  yellow,  like  that  of  the  town  it- 
self— yellow  in  the  interblending  of  all  the  hues  charac- 
terizing mulatresse,  capresse,  griffe,  quarteronne,  metisse,  cha- 
bine, — a  general  effect  of  rich  brownish  yellow.  You  are 
among  a  people  of  half-breeds, — the  finest  mixed  race  of 
the  West  Indies. 

Straight  as  palms,  and  supple  and  tall,  these  colored 
women  and  men  impress  one  powerfully  by  their  digni- 
fied carriage  and  easy  elegance  of  movement.  They 
walk  without  swinging  of  the  shoulders ; — the  perfectly 
set  torso  seems  to  remain  rigid ;  yet  the  step  is  a  long 
full  stride,  and  the  whole  weight  is  springily  poised  on 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics,  39 

the  very  tip  of  the  bare  foot.  All,  or  nearly  all,  are  with- 
out shoes :  the  treading  of  many  naked  feet  over  the 
heated  pavement  makes  a  continuous  whispering  sound. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  the  most  novel  impression  of  all  is  that 
produced  by  the  singularity  and  brilliancy  of  certain  of 
the  women's  costumes.  These  were  developed,  at  least 
a  hundred  years  ago,  by  some  curious  sumptuary  law 
regulating  the  dress  of  slaves  and  colored  people  of  free 
condition, — a  law  which  allowed  considerable  liberty  as 
to  material  and  tint,  prescribing  chiefly  form.  But  some 
of  these  fashions  suggest  the  Orient :  they  offer  beautiful 
audacities  of  color  contrast;  and  the  full-dress  coiffure, 
above  all,  is  so  strikingly  Eastern  that  one  might  be 
tempted  to  believe  it  was  first  introduced  into  the  colony 
by  some  Mohammedan  slave.  It  is  merely  an  immense 
Madras  handkerchief,  which  is  folded  about  the  head  with 
admirable  art,  like  a  turban ; — one  bright  end  pushed 
through  at  the  top  in  front,  being  left  sticking  up  like  a 
plume.  Then  this  turban,  always  full  of  bright  canary- 
color,  is  fastened  with  golden  brooches, —  one  in  front 
and  one  at  either  side.  As  for  the  remainder  of  the 
dress,  it  is  simple  enough:  an  embroidered,  low-cut 
chemise  with  sleeves;  a  skirt  or  jupe,  very  long  behind, 
but  caught  up  and  fastened  in  front  below  the  breasts 
so  as  to  bring  the  hem  everywhere  to  a  level  with  the 
end  of  the  long  chemise ;  and  finally  a  foulard,  or  silken 
kerchief,  thrown  over  the  shoulders.  These  jupes  and 
foulards,  however,  are  exquisite  in  pattern  and  color : 
bright  crimson,  bright  yellow,  bright  blue,  bright  green,— 
lilac,  violet,  rose,  —  sometimes  mingled  in  plaidings  or 
checkerings  or  stripings :  black  with  orange,  sky  -  blue 
with  purple.  And  whatever  be  the  colors  of  the  cos- 
tume, which  vary  astonishingly,  the  coiffure  must  be 
yellow — brilliant,  flashing  yellow:  the  turban  is  certain 
to  have  yellow  stripes  or  yellow  squares.  To  this  display 
add  the  effect  of  costly  and  curious  jewellery  :  immense 


4O  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

ear-rings,  each  pendant  being  formed  of  five  gold  cylin- 
ders joined  together  (cylinders  sometimes  two  inches 
long,  and  an  inch  at  least  in  circumference)"; — a  neck- 
lace of  double,  triple,  quadruple,  or  quintuple  rows  of 
large  hollow  gold  beads  (sometimes  smooth,  but  gener- 
ally graven) — the  wonderful  collier-choux.  Now,  this  glow- 
ing jewellery  is  not  a  mere  imitation  of  pure  metal :  the 
ear-rings  are  worth  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  francs 
a  pair;  the  necklace  of  a  Martinique  quadroon  may  cost 
five  hundred  or  even  one  thousand  francs.  ...  It  may 
be  the  gift  of  her  lover,  her  doudoux ;  but  such  articles 
are  usually  purchased  either  on  time  by  small  payments, 
or  bead  by  bead  singly  until  the  requisite  number  is 
made  up. 

But  few  are  thus  richly  attired  :  the  greater  number 
of  the  women  carrying  burdens  on  their  heads, — ped- 
dling vegetables,  cakes,  fruit,  ready  -  cooked  food,  from 
door  to  door, — are  very  simply  dressed  in  a  single  plain 
robe  of  vivid  colors  (douillette)  reaching  from  neck  to  feet, 
and  made  with  a  train,  but  generally  girded  well  up  so 
as  to  sit  close  to  the  figure  and  leave  the  lower  limbs 
partly  bare  and  perfectly  free.  These  women  can  walk 
all  day  long  up  and  down  hill  in  the  hot  sun,  without 
shoes,  carrying  loads  of  from  one  hundred  to  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  on  their  heads ;  and  if  their  little 
stock  sometimes  fails  to  come  up  to  the  accustomed  weight 
stones  are  added  to  make  it  heavy  enough.  Doubtless 
the  habit  of  carrying  everything  in  this  way  from  child- 
hood has  much  to  do  with  the  remarkable  vigor  and 
erectness  of  the  population.  ...  I  have  seen  a  grand- 
piano  carried  on  the  heads  of  four  men.  With  the  women 
the  load  is  very  seldom  steadied  with  the  hand  after  hav- 
ing been  once  placed  in  position.  The  head  remains  al- 
most motionless  ;  but  the  black,  quick,  piercing  eyes  flash 
into  every  window  and  door-way  to  watch  for  a  custom- 
er's signal.  And  the  Creole  street-cries,  uttered  in  a  so- 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  41 

norous,  far-reaching  high  key,  interblend  and  produce 
random  harmonies  very  pleasant  to  hear. 

.  .  .  "  'fe  moune-ld,  fa  qui  le  bel  mango  T'  Her  basket 
of  mangoes  certainly  weighs  as  much  as  herself.  .  .  .  "  Q a 
qui  le  bel  avocat  ?"  The  alligator-pear — cuts  and  tastes 
like  beautiful  green  cheese.  .  .  .  "  Q a  qui  le  escargot  ?"  Call 
her,  if  you  like  snails.  .  .  .  "  Q a  qui  It  titiri  ?"  Minus- 
cule fish,  of  which  a  thousand  would  scarcely  fill  a  tea- 
cup ; — one  of  the  most  delicate  of  Martinique  dishes.  .  .  . 
"Qa  qui  le  canna? — fa  qui  le  charbon? — Qa  qui  le  di 
pain  aube  ?"  (Who  wants  ducks,  charcoal,  or  pretty  little 
loaves  shaped  like  cucumbers.) . . . "  Q a  qui  le  pain-mi  ?"  A 
sweet  maize  cake  in  the  form  of  a  tiny  sugar-loaf,  wrapped 
in  a  piece  of  banana  leaf.  .  .  .  "  Q a  qui  le  fromasse  " 
(pharmade)  "  lapotecai  Creole  ?"  She  deals  in  Creole  roots 
and  herbs,  and  all  the  leaves  that  make  .//&*;/£$•  or  poul- 
tices or  medicines  :  matriquin,  feuill-corossol,  balai-doux, 
manioc  -  chapelle,  Marie  -  Perrine,  graine  -  enba  -feuill,  bois- 
d'lhomme,  zhebe-gras,  bonnet -carre,  zhebe -codeinne,  zhebe- 
a  -femme,  zhebe-  a  -  chatte,  canne-dleau,  poque,  fleu  -papillon, 
lateigne,  and  a  score  of  others  you  never  saw  or  heard 
of  before.  .  .  .  "fVz  qui  le  dicamentsl"  (overalls  for  labor- 
ing-men). .  .  .  "Qe  moune-la,  si  ou  pa  le  achete  canari-a  dans 
lanmain  moin,  main  ke  craze  y"  The  vender  of  red  clay 
cooking-pots  ; — she  has  only  one  left,  if  you  do  not  buy 
it  she  will  break  it ! 

"He  !  zenfants-la  ! — en  deho'  /"  Run  out  to  meet  her, 
little  children,  if  you  like  the  sweet  rice-cakes.  ..."  He! 
gens  pa1  enhd ',  gens  pa'  enbas,  gens  di  galtas,  moin  ni  bel 
gououbs  poisson  /"  Ho  !  people  up-stairs,  people  down- 
stairs, and  all  ye  good  folks  who  dwell  in  the  attics, — 
know  that  she  has  very  big  and  very  beautiful  fish  to 
sell !  .  . .  "He  !  fa  qui  le  mange  yonne  1" — those  are  "  ak- 
ras," — flat  yellow-brown  cakes,  made  of  pounded  codfish, 
or  beans,  or  both,  seasoned  with  pepper  and  fried  in  but- 
ter. .  .  .  And  then  comes  the  pastry-seller,  black  as  ebony, 


42  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

but  dressed  all  in  white,  and  white -aproned  and  white- 
capped  like  a  French  cook,  and  chanting  half  in  French, 
half  in  Creole,  with  a  voice  like  a  clarinet : 

"  C'est  louvouier  de  la  patisserie  qui  passe, 
Qui  te  ka  veille  pou'  gagner  son  existence, 
Toujours  content, 
Toujours  joyeux. 
Oh,  qu'ils  sont  bons  ! — 
Oh,  qu'ils  sont  doux  !" 

It  is  the  pastryman  passing  by,  who  has  been  up  all 
night  to  gain  his  livelihood, — always  content, — always 
happy.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  good  they  are  (the  pies)  ! — Oh,  how 
sweet  they  are  ! 

.  .  .  The  quaint  stores  bordering  both  sides  of  the 
street  bear  no  names  and  no  signs  over  their  huge 
arched  doors ; — you  must  look  well  ihside  to  know  what 
business  is  being  done.  Even  then  you  will  scarcely  be 
able  to  satisfy  yourself  as  to  the  nature  of  the  com- 
merce;— for  they  are  selling  gridirons  and  frying-pans 
in  the  dry  goods  stores,  holy  images  and  rosaries  in  the 
notion  stores,  sweet -cakes  and  confectionery  in  the 
crockery  stores,  coffee  and  stationery  in  the  millinery 
stores,  cigars  and  tobacco  in  the  china  stores,  cravats 
and  laces  and  ribbons  in  the  jewellery  stores,  sugar  and 
guava  jelly  in  the  tobacco  stores  !  But  of  all  the  ob- 
jects exposed  for  sale  the  most  attractive,  because  the 
most  exotic,  is  a  doll, — the  Martinique  poupee.  There 
are  two  kinds, — the  poupee-capresse,  of  which  the  body  is 
covered  with  smooth  reddish-brown  leather,  to  imitate 
the  tint  of  the  capresse  race  ;  and  the  poupee-negresse,  cov- 
ered with  black  leather.  When  dressed,  these  dolls 
range  in  price  from  eleven  to  thirty-five  francs, — some, 
dressed  to  order,  may  cost  even  more ;  and  a  good 
poupee-capresse  is  a  delightful  curiosity.  Both  varieties 
of  dolls  are  attired  in  the  costume  of  the  people ;  but 
the  negresse  is  usually  dressed  the  more  simply.  Each 


ITINERANT    PASTRY-SELLER. 

"Toujours  content, 
Toujours  joyeux." 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  43 

doll  has  a  broidered  chemise,  a  tastefully  arranged  jupe 
of  bright  hues,  a  silk  foulard,  a  collier-choux,  ear-rings  of 
five  cylinders  (zanneaux-a-clous),  and  a  charming  little 
yellow-banded  Madras  turban.  Such  a  doll  is  a  perfect 
costume-model, — a  perfect  miniature  of  Martinique  fash- 
ions, to  the  smallest  details  of  material  and  color :  it  is 
almost  too  artistic  for  a-  toy. 

These  old  costume-colors  of  Martinique — always  re- 
lieved by  brilliant  yellow  stripings  or  checkerings,  except 
in  the  special  violet  dresses  worn  on  certain  religious 
occasions  —  have  an  indescribable  luminosity,  —  a  won- 
derful power  of  bringing  out  the  fine  warm  tints  of  this 
tropical  flesh.  Such  are  the  hues  of  those  rich  costumes 
Nature  gives  to  her  nearest  of  kin  and  her  dearest, — her 
honey-lovers — her  insects  :  these  are  wasp-colors.  I  do 
not  know  whether  the  fact  ever  occurred  to  the  childish 
fancy  of  this  strange  race ;  but  there  is  a  Creole  expres- 
sion which  first  suggested  it  to  me ;  —  in  the  patois, 
pouend  guepe,  "to  catch  a  wasp,"  signifies  making  love 
to  a  pretty  colored  girl.  .  .  .  And  the  more  one  observes 
these  costumes,  the  more  one  feels  that  only  Nature 
could  have  taught  such  rare  comprehension  of  powers 
and  harmonies  among  colors, — such  knowledge  of  chro- 
matic witchcrafts  and  chromatic  laws. 

.  .  .  This  evening,  as  I  write,  La  Pelee  is  more  heavily 
coiffed  than  is  her  wont.  Of  purple  and  lilac  cloud  the 
coiffure  is, — a  magnificent  Madras,  yellow-banded  by  the 
sinking  sun.  La  Pelee  is  in  costume  defete,  like  a  capresse 
attired  for  a  baptism  or  a  ball ;  and  in  her  phantom  tur- 
ban one  great  star  glimmers  for  a  brooch. 
4- 


44  ^  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 


XIII. 

FOLLOWING  the  Rue  Victor  Hugo  in  the  direction  of 
the  Fort, — crossing  the  Riviere  Roxelane,  or  Riviere  des 
Blanchisseuses,  whose  rocky  bed  is  white  with  unsoaped 
linen  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, — you  descend  through 
some  tortuous  narrow  streets  into  the  principal  market- 
place.* A  square — well  paved  and  well  shaded — with 
a  fountain  in  the  midst.  Here  the  dealers  are  seated  in 
rows ; — one  half  of  the  market  is  devoted  to  fruits  and 
vegetables  ;  the  other  to  the  sale  of  fresh  fish  and  meats. 
On  first  entering  you  are  confused  by  the  press  and  deaf- 
ened by  the  storm  of  Creole  chatter  ; — then  you  begin  to 
discern  some  order  in  this  chaos,  and  to  observe  curious 
things. 

In  the  middle  of  the  paved  square,  about  the  market 
fountain,  are  lying  boats  filled  with  fish,  which  have  been 
carried  up  from  the  water  upon  men's  shoulders, — or,  if 
very  heavy,  conveyed  on  rollers.  .  .  .  Such  fish ! — blue, 
rosy,  green,  lilac,  scarlet,  gold  :  no  spectral  tints  these, 
but  luminous  and  strong  like  fire.  Here  also  you  see 
heaps  of  long  thin  fish  looking  like  piled  bars  of  silver,— 
absolutely  dazzling, — of  almost  equal  thickness  from 
head  to  tail ; — near  by  are  heaps  of  flat  pink  creatures ; — 
beyond  these,  again,  a  mass  of  azure  backs  and  gold- 
en bellies.  Among  the  stalls  you  can  study  the  mon- 
sters,— twelve  or  fifteen  feet  long, — the  shark,  the  vierge, 
the  sword-fish,  the  tonne ; — or  the  eccentricities.  Some 
are  very  thin  round  disks,  with  long,  brilliant,  wormy 
feelers  in  lieu  of  fins,  flickering  in  all  directions  like 
a  moving  pendent  silver  fringe;  —  others  bristle  with 
spines ; — others,  serpent-bodied,  are  so  speckled  as  to 


*  Since  this  was  written  the  market  has  been  removed  to  the 
Savane, — to  allow  of  the  erection  of  a  large  new  market-building 
on  the  old  site  ;  and  the  beautiful  trees  have  been  cut  down. 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  45 

resemble  shapes  of  red  polished  granite.  These  are 
moringues.  The  lalaou,  couliou,  macriau,  tazard,  tcha-tcha, 
bonnique,  and  zorphi  severally  represent  almost  all  pos- 
sible tints  of  blue  and  violet.  The  souri  is  rose-color 
and  yellow ;  the  drurgien  is  black,  with  yellow  and  red 
stripes ;  the  patate,  black  and  yellow ;  the  gros-zie  is 
vermilion ;  the  couronnt,  red  and  black.  Their  names 
are  not  less  unfamiliar  than  their  shapes  and  tints ; — 
the  aiguille-de-mer,  or  sea-needle,  long  and  thin  as  a  pen- 
cil ; — the  Bon-Die-manie-moin  ("  the  Good-God  handled 
me"),  which  has  something  like  finger-marks  upon  it;  — 
the  Iambi,  a  huge  sea-snail; — \h&  pisquette,  the  laline  (the 
Moon) ; — the  crapaud-de-mer,  or  sea-toad,  with  a  danger- 
ous dorsal  fin ; — the  vermeil,  the  jacquot,  the  chaponne, 
and  fifty  others.  ...  As  the  sun  gets  higher,  banana  or 
balisier  leaves  are  laid  over  the  fish. 

Even  more  puzzling,  perhaps,  are  the  astonishing  va- 
rieties of  green,  yellow,  and  parti-colored  vegetables, — 
and  fruits  of  all  hues  and  forms, — out  of  which  display 
you  retain  only  a  confused  general  memory  of  sweet 
smells  and  luscious  colors.  But  there  are  some  oddities 
which  impress  the  recollection  in  a  particular  way.  One 
is  a  great  cylindrical  ivory-colored  thing, — shaped  like 
an  elephant's  tusk,  except  that  it  is  not  curved  :  this  is 
the  head  of  the  cabbage-palm,  or  palmiste, — the  brain 
of  one  of  the  noblest  trees  in  the  tropics,  which  must  be 
totally  destroyed  to  obtain  it.  Raw  or  cooked,  it  is 
eaten  in  a  great  variety  of  ways, — in  salads,  stews,  frit- 
ters, or  akras.  Soon  after  this  compact  cylinder  of 
young  germinating  leaves  has  been  removed,  large  worms 
begin  to  appear  in  the  hollow  of  the  dead  tree, — the 
vers-palmiste.  You  may  see  these  for  sale  in  the  market, 
crawling  about  in  bowls  or  cans :  they  are  said,  when 
fried  alive,  to  taste  like  almonds,  and  are  esteemed  as 
a  great  luxury. 

.  .  .  Then  you  begin  to  look  about  you  at  the  faces  of 


46  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

the  black,  brown,  and  yellow  people  who  are  watching 
you  curiously  from  beneath  their  Madras  turbans,  or 
from  under  the  shade  of  mushroom-shaped  hats  as  large 
as  umbrellas.  And  as  you  observe  the  bare  backs,  bare 
shoulders,  bare  legs  and  arms  and  feet,  you  will  find 
that  the  colors  of  flesh  are  even  more  varied  and  surpris- 
ing than  the  colors  of  fruit.  Nevertheless,  it  is  only  with 
fruit-colors  that  many  of  these  skin-tints  can  be  correctly 
compared :  the  only  terms  of  comparison  used  by  the  col- 
ored people  themselves  being  terms  of  this  kind, — such 
as  peau-chapotille,  "  sapota-skin."  The  sapota  or  sapotilk 
is  a  juicy  brown  fruit  with  a  rind  satiny  like  a  human 
cuticle,  and  just  the  color,  when  flushed  and  ripe,  of  cer- 
tain half-breed  skins.  But  among  the  brighter  half- 
breeds,  the  colors,  I  think,  are  much  more  fruit-like ; — 
there  are  banana-tints,  lemon-tones,  orange -hues,  with 
sometimes  such  a  mingling  of  ruddiness  as  in  the  pink 
ripening  of  a  mango.  Agreeable  to  the  eye  the  darker 
skins  certainly  are,  and  often  very  remarkable — all  clear 
tones  of  bronze  being  represented ;  but  the  brighter 
tints  are  absolutely  beautiful.  Standing  perfectly  naked 
at  door-ways,  or  playing  naked  in  the  sun,  astonishing 
children  may  sometimes  be  seen, —  banana-colored  or 
orange  babies.  There  is  one  rare  race-type,  totally  un- 
like the  rest:  the  skin  has  a  perfect  gold-tone,  an  exqui- 
site metallic  yellow ;  the  eyes  are  long,  and  have  long 
silky  lashes ; — the  hair  is  a  mass  of  thick,  rich,  glossy 
curls  that  show  blue  lights  in  the  sun.  What  mingling 
of  races  produced  this  beautiful  type  ? — there  is  some 
strange  blood  in  the  blending, — not  of  coolie,  nor  of 
African,  nor  of  Chinese,  although  there  are  Chinese 
types  here  of  indubitable  beauty.* 

*  I  subsequently  learned  the  mystery  of  this  very  strange  and 
beautiful  mixed  race, — many  fine  specimens  of  which  may  also  be 
seen  in  Trinidad.  Three  widely  diverse  elements  have  combined 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  47 

...  All  this  population  is  vigorous,  graceful,  healthy: 
all  you  see  passing  by  are  well  made — there  are  no  sickly 
faces,  no  scrawny  limbs.  If  by  some  rare  chance  you 
encounter  a  person  who  has  lost  an  arm  or  a  leg,  you  can 
be  almost  certain  you  are  looking  at  a  victim  of  the  fer- 
de- lance, —  the  serpent  whose  venom  putrefies  living 
tissue.  .  .  .  Without  fear  of  exaggerating  facts,  I  can  vent- 
ure to  say  that  the  muscular  development  of  the  working- 
men  here  is  something  which  must  be  seen  in  order  to 

to  form  it:  European,  negro,  and  Indian, — but,  strange  to  say,  it  is 
the  most  savage  of  these  three  bloods  which  creates  the  peculiar 
charm.  ...  I  cannot  speak  of  this  comely  and  extraordinary  type 
without  translating  a  passage  from  Dr.  J.  J.  J.  Cornilliac,  an  emi- 
nent Martinique  physician,  who  recently  published  a  most  valuable 
series  of  studies  upon  the  ethnology,  climatology,  and  history  of  the 
Antilles.  In  these  he  writes  : 

..."  When,  among  the  populations  of  the  Antilles,  we  first  notice 
those  remarkable  mttis  whose  olive  skins,  elegant  and  slender  fig- 
ures, fine  straight  profiles,  and  regular  features  remind  us  of  the  in- 
habitants of  Madras  or  Pondicherry, — we  ask  ourselves  in  wonder, 
while  looking  at  their  long  eyes,  full  of  a  strange  and  gentle  melan- 
choly (especially  among  the  women),  and  at  the  black,  rich,  silky- 
gleaming  hair  curling  in  abundance  over  the  temples  and  falling  in 
profusion  over  the  neck, — to  what  human  race  can  belong  this  sin- 
gular variety, — in  which  there  is  a  dominant  characteristic  that 
seems  indelible,  and  always  shows  more  and  more  strongly  in  pro- 
portion as  the  type  is  further  removed  from  the  African  element. 
It  is  the  Carib  blood, — blended  with  blood  of  Europeans  and  of 
blacks, — which  in  spite  of  all  subsequent  crossings,  and  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  it  has  not  been  renewed  for  more  than  two  hundred 
years,  still  conserves  as  markedly  as  at  the  time  of  the  first  inter- 
blending,  the  race-characteristic  that  invariably  reveals  its  presence 
in  the  blood  of  every  being  through  whose  veins  it  flows." — "  Re- 
cherches  chronologiques  et  historiques  sur  1'Origine  et  la  Propaga- 
tion de  la  Fievre  Jaune  aux  Antilles."  Par  J.  J.  J.  Cornilliac. 
Fort-de-France:  Imprimerie  du  Gouvernement.  1886. 

But  I  do  not  think  the  term  "olive"  always  indicates  the  color 
of  these  skins,  which  seemed  to  me  exactly  the  tint  of  gold;  and  the 
hair  flashes  with  bluish  lights,  like  the  plumage  of  certain  black 
birds. 


48  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

be  believed; — to  study  fine  displays  of  it,  one  should 
watch  the  blacks  and  half-breeds  working  naked  to  the 
waist, — on  the  landings,  in  the  gas-houses  and  slaughter- 
houses, or  on  the  nearest  plantations.  They  are  not 
generally  large  men,  perhaps  not  extraordinarily  power- 
ful; but  they  have  the  aspect  of  sculptural  or  even  of 
anatomical  models ;  they  seem  absolutely  devoid  of  adi- 
pose tissue  ;  their  muscles  stand  out  with  a  saliency  that 
astonishes  the  eye.  At  a  tanning-yard,  while  I  was  watch- 
ing a  dozen  blacks  at  work,  a  young  mulatto  with  the 
mischievous  face  of  a  faun  walked  by,  wearing  nothing 
but  a  clout  (lantcho}  about  his  loins  ;  and  never,  not  even 
in  bronze,  did  I  see  so  beautiful  a  play  of  muscles.  A 
demonstrator  of  anatomy  could  have  used  him  for  a 
class-model ; — a  sculptor  wishing  to  shape  a  fine  Mer- 
cury would  have  been  satisfied  to  take  a  cast  of  such 
a  body  without  thinking  of  making  one  modification  from 
neck  to  heel.  "  Frugal  diet  is  the  cause  of  this  physical 
condition,"  a  young  French  professor  assures  me ;  "  all 
these  men,"  he  says,  "  live  upon  salt  codfish  and  fruit." 
But  frugal  living  alone  could  never  produce  such  sym- 
metry and  saliency  of  muscles:  race -crossing,  climate, 
perpetual  exercise,  healthy  labor — many  conditions  must 
have  combined  to  cause  it.  Also  it  is  certain  that  this 
tropical  sun  has  a  tendency  to  dissolve  spare  flesh,  to 
melt  away  all  superfluous  tissue,  leaving  the  muscular 
fibre  dense  and  solid  as  mahogany. 

At  the  mouittage,  below  a  green  morne,  is  the  bathing- 
place.  A  rocky  beach  rounding  away  under  heights  of 
tropical  wood  ; — palms  curving  out  above  the  sand,  or 
bending  half-way  across  it.  Ships  at  anchor  in  blue 
water,  against  golden-yellow  horizon.  A  vast  blue  glow. 
Water  clear  as  diamond,  and  lukewarm. 

It  is  about  one  hour  after  sunrise;  and  the  higher 
parts  of  Montagne  Pelee  are  still  misty  blue.  Under  the 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  49 

palms  and  among  the  lava  rocks,  and  also  in  little  cabins 
farther  up  the  slope,  bathers  are  dressing  or  undress- 
ing :  the  water  is  also  dotted  with  heads  of  swimmers. 
Women  and  girls  enter  it  well  robed  from  feet  to  shoul- 
ders ; — men  go  in  very  sparsely  clad ; — there  are  lads 
wearing  nothing.  Young  boys — yellow  and  brown  lit- 
tle fellows  —  run  in  naked,  and  swim  out  to  pointed 
rocks  that  jut  up  black  above  the  bright  water.  They 
climb  up  one  at  a  time  to  dive  down.  Poised  for  the 
leap  upon  the  black  lava  crag,  and  against  the  blue  light 
of  the  sky,  each  lithe  figure,  gilded  by  the  morning  sun, 
has  a  statuesqueness  and  a  luminosity  impossible  to 
paint  in  words.  These  bodies  seem  to  radiate  color  ; 
and  the  azure  light  intensifies  the  hue  :  it  is  idyllic,  in- 
credible ; — Coomans  used  paler  colors  in  his  Pompeiian 
studies,  and  his  figures  were  never  so  symmetrical.  This 
flesh  does  not  look  like  flesh,  but  like  fruit-pulp.  .  .  . 

XIV. 

.  .  .  EVERYWHERE  crosses,  little  shrines,  way-side  chap- 
els, statues^  of  saints.  You  will  see  crucifixes  and  statu- 
ettes even  in  the  forks  or  hollows  of  tre.es  shadowing 
the  high-roads.  As  you  ascend  these  towards  the  inte- 
rior you  will  see,  every  mile  or  half-mile,  some  chapel,  or  a 
cross  erected  upon  a  pedestal  of  masonry,  or  some  little 
niche  contrived  in  a  wall,  closed  by  a  wire  grating,  through 
which  the  image  of  a  Christ  or  a  Madonna  is  visible. 
Lamps  are  kept  burning  all  night  before  these  figures. 
But  the  village  of  Morne  Rouge — some  two  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea,  and  about  an  hour's  drive  from  St. 
Pierre — is  chiefly  remarkable  for  such  displays:  it  is  a 
place  of  pilgrimage  as  well  as  a  health  resort.  Above 
the  village,  upon  the  steep  slope  of  a  higher  morne,  one 
may  note  a  singular  succession  of  little  edifices  ascend- 
ing to  the  summit, — fourteen  little  tabernacles,  each  con- 


50  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

taining  a  relievo  representing  some  incident  of  Christ's 
Passion.  This  is  called  Le  Calvaire:  it  requires  more 
than  a  feeble  piety  to  perform  the  religious  exercise  of 
climbing  the  height,  and  saying  a  prayer  before  each 
little  shrine  on  the  way.  From  the  porch  of  the  crown- 
ing structure  the  village  of  Morne  Rouge  appears  so  far 
below  that  it  makes  one  almost  dizzy  to  look  at  it ;  but 
even  for  the  profane  one  ascent  is  well  worth  making, 
for  the  sake  of  the  beautiful  view.  On  all  the  neighbor- 

o 

ing  heights  around  are  votive  chapels  or  great  crucifixes. 

St.  Pierre  is  less  peopled  with  images  than  Morne 
Rouge ;  but  it  has  several  colossal  ones,  which  may  be 
seen  from  any  part  of  the  harbor.  On  the  heights  above 
the  middle  quarter,  or  Centre,  a  gigantic  Christ  overlooks 
the  bay;  and  from  the  Morne  d'Orange,  which  bounds 
the  city  on  the  south,  a  great  white  Virgin — Notre  Dame 
de  la  Garde,  patron  of  mariners — watches  above  the  ships 
at  anchor  in  the  mouillage. 

.  .  .  Thrice  daily,  from  the  towers  of  the  white  cathe- 
dral, a  superb  chime  of  bells  rolls  its  carillon  through 
the  town.  On  great  holidays  the  bells  are  wonderfully 
rung; — the  ringers  are  African,  and  something  of  Afri- 
can feeling  is  observable  in  their  impressive  but  incan- 
tatory  manner  of  ringing.  The  bourdon  must  have  cost 
a  fortune.  When  it  is  made  to  speak,  the  effect  is  star- 
tling :  all  the  city  vibrates  to  a  weird  sound  difficult  to 
describe, — an  abysmal,  quivering  moan,  producing  unfa- 
miliar harmonies  as  the  voices  of  the  smaller  bells  are 
seized  and  interblended  by  it.  .  .  .  One  will  not  easily 
forget  the  ringing  of  a  bel-midi. 

.  .  .  Behind  the  cathedral,  above  the  peaked  city  roofs, 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  wood-clad  Morne  d'Orange,  is  the 
Cimetiere  du  Mouillage.  ...  It  is  full  of  beauty,  —  this 
strange  tropical  cemetery.  Most  of  the  low  tombs  are 
covered  with  small  square  black  and  white  tiles,  set  ex- 
actly after  the  fashion  of  the  squares  on  a.  chess-board ; 


IN   THE  CIMETIERE   PU   MOUJl>LAGp,  ST.  PIERRE. 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  5 1 

at  the  foot  of  each  grave  stands  a  black  cross,  bearing 
at  its  centre  a  little  white  plaque,  on  which  the  name  is 
graven  in  delicate  and  tasteful  lettering.  So  pretty  these 
little  tombs  are,  that  you  might  almost  believe  yourself 
in  a  toy  cemetery.  Here  and  there,  again,  are  miniature 
marble  chapels  built  over  the  dead, — containing  white 
Madonnas  and  Christs  and  little  angels, — while  flower- 
ing creepers  climb  and  twine  about  the  pillars.  Death 
seems  so  luminous  here  that  one  thinks  of  it  uncon- 
sciously as  a  soft  rising  from  this  soft  green  earth, — like 
a  vapor  invisible, — to  melt  into  the  prodigious  day.  Ev- 
erything is  bright  and  neat  and  beautiful ;  the  air  is 
sleepy  with  jasmine  scent  and  odor  of  white  lilies ;  and 
the  palm — emblem  of  immortality — lifts  its  head  a  hun- 
dred feet  into  the  blue  light.  There  are  rows  of  these 
majestic  and  symbolic  trees  ; — two  enormous  ones  guard 
the  entrance  ; — the  others  rise  from  among  the  tombs, — 
white-stemmed,  out-spreading  their  huge  parasols  of  verd- 
ure higher  than  the  cathedral  towers. 

Behind  all  this,  the  dumb  green  life  of  the  morne 
seems  striving  to  descend,  to  invade  the  rest  of  the  dead. 
It  thrusts  green  hands  over  the  wall, — pushes  strong 
roots  underneath ;— it  attacks  every  joint  of  the  stone- 
work, patiently,  imperceptibly,  yet  almost  irresistibly. 

.  .  .  Some  day  there  may  be  a  great  change  in  the  little 
city  of  St.  Pierre ; — there  may  be  less  money  and  less 
zeal  and  less  remembrance  of  the  lost.  Then  from  the 
morne,  over  the  bulwark,  the  green  host  will  move  down 
unopposed; — creepers  will  prepare  the  way,  dislocating 
the  pretty  tombs,  pulling  away  the  checkered  tiling ; — 
then  will  come  the  giants,  rooting  deeper, — feeling  for 
the  dust  of  hearts,  groping  among  the  bones  ; — and  all 
that  love  has  hidden  away  shall  be  restored  to  Nature, — 
absorbed  into  the  rich  juices  of  her  verdure, — revitalized 
in  her  bursts  of  color, — resurrected  in  her  upliftings  of 
emerald  and  gold  to  the  great  sun.  .  .  . 


52  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 


XV. 

SEEN  from  the  bay,  the  little  red -white -and -yellow 
city  forms  but  one  multicolored  streak  against  the  burn- 
ing green  of  the  lofty  island.  There  is  no  naked  soil, 
no  bare  rock  :  the  chains  of  the  mountains,  rising  by  suc- 
cessive ridges  towards  the  interior,  are  still  covered  with 
forests ; — tropical  woods  ascend  the  peaks  to  the  height 
of  four  and  five  thousand  feet.  To  describe  the  beauty 
of  these  woods  —  even  of  those  covering  the  mornes 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  St.  Pierre  —  seems  to  me 
almost  impossible ; — there  are  forms  and  colors  which 
appear  to  demand  the  creation  of  new  words  to  express. 
Especially  is  this  true  in  regard  to  hue ; — the  green  of 
a  tropical  forest  is  something  which  one  familiar  only 
with  the  tones  of  Northern  vegetation  can  form  no  just 
conception  of :  it  is  a  color  that  conveys  the  idea  of 
green  fire. 

You  have  only  to  follow  the  high-road  leading  out  of 
St.  Pierre  by  way  of  the  Savane  du  Fort  to  find  your- 
self, after  twenty  minutes'  walk,  in  front  of  the  Morne 
Parnasse,  and  before  the  verge  of  a  high  wood, — rem- 
nant of  the  enormous  growth  once  covering  all  the  isl- 
and. What  a  tropical  forest  is,  as  seen  from  without, 
you  will  then  begin  to  feel,  with  a  sort  of  awe,  while  you 
watch  that  beautiful  upclimbing  of  green  shapes  to  the 
height  of  perhaps  a  thousand  feet  overhead.  It  pre- 
sents one  seemingly  solid  surface  of  vivid  color, — rugose 
like  a  cliff.  You  do  not  readily  distinguish  whole  trees 
in  the  mass ; — you  only  perceive  suggestions,  dreams  of 
trees,  Doresqueries.  Shapes  that  seem  to  be  stagger- 
ing under  weight  of  creepers  rise  a  hundred  feet  above 
you  ; — others,  equally  huge,  are  towering  above  these  ; — 
and  still  higher,  a  legion  of  monstrosities  are  nodding, 
bending,  tossing  up  green  arms,  pushing  out  great  knees, 
projecting  curves  as  of  backs  and  shoulders,  intertwining 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  53 

mockeries  of  limbs.  No  distinct  head  appears  except 
where  some  palm  pushes  up  its  crest  in  the  general  fight 
for  sun.  All  else  looks  as  if  under  a  veil, — hidden  and 
half  smothered  by  heavy  drooping  things.  Blazing  green 
vines  cover  every  branch  and  stem  ; — they  form  draperies 
and  tapestries  and  curtains  and  motionless  cascades — 
pouring  down  over  all  projections  like  a  thick  silent  flood : 
an  amazing  inundation  of  parasitic  life.  ...  It  is  a  weird 
and  awful  beauty  that  you  gaze  upon ;  and  yet  the  spec- 
tacle is  imperfect.  These  woods  have  been  decimated; — 
the  finest  trees  have  been  cut  down  :  you  see  only  a 
ruin  of  what  was.  To  see  the  true  primeval  forest,  you 
must  ride  well  into  the  interior. 

The  absolutism  of  green  does  not,  however,  always 
prevail  in  these  woods.  During  a  brief  season,  corre- 
sponding to  some  of  our  winter  months,  the  forests  sud- 
denly break  into  a  very  conflagration  of  color,  caused  by 
the  blossoming  of  the  lianas — crimson,  canary -yellow, 
blue,  and  white.  There  are  other  flowerings,  indeed  ; 
but  that  of  the  lianas  alone  has  chromatic  force  enough 
to  change  the  aspect  of  a  landscape. 


XVI. 

...  IF  it  is  possible  for  a  West  Indian  forest  to  be  de- 
scribed at  all,  it  could  not  be  described  more  powerfully 
than  it  has  been  by  Dr.  E.  Rufz,  a  Creole  of  Martinique, 
from  one  of  whose  works  I  venture  to  translate  the  fol- 
lowing remarkable  pages : 

..."  The  sea,  the  sea  alone,  because  it  is  the  most  co- 
lossal of  earthly  spectacles, — only  the  sea  can  afford  us 
any  term  of  comparison  for  the  attempt  to  describe  a 
grand-bois; — but  even  then  one  must  imagine  the  sea  on 
a  day  of  storm,  suddenly  immobilized  in  the  expression 
of  its  mightiest  fury.  For  the  summits  of  these  vast 


54  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

woods  repeat  all  the  inequalities  of  the  land  they  cover; 
and  these  inequalities  are  mountains  from  4200  to  4800 
feet  in  height,  and  valleys  of  corresponding  profundity. 
All  this  is  hidden,  blended  together,  smoothed  over  by 
verdure,  in  soft  and  enormous  undulations, — in  immense 
billowings  of  foliage.  Only,  instead  of  a  blue  line  at  the 
horizon,  you  have  a  green  line ;  instead  of  flashings  of 
blue,  you  have  .flashings  of  green, — and  in  all  the  tints, 
in  all  the  combinations  of  which  green  is  capable :  deep 
green,  light  green,  yellow-green,  black-green. 

"  When  your  eyes  grow  weary — if  it  indeed  be  possi- 
ble for  them  to  weary  —  of  contemplating  the  exterior 
of  these  tremendous  woods,  try  to  penetrate  a  little  into 
their  interior.  What  an  inextricable  chaos  it  is !  The 
sands  of  a  sea  are  not  more  closely  pressed  together 
than  the  trees  are  here :  some  straight,  some  curved,  some 
upright,  some  toppling, — fallen,  or  leaning  against  one 
another,  or  heaped  high  upon  each  other.  Climbing  li- 
anas, which  cross  from  one  tree  to  the  other,  like  ropes 
passing  from  mast  to  mast,  help  to  fill  up  all  the  gaps  in 
this  treillage ;  and  parasites — not  timid  parasites  like  ivy 
or  like  moss,  but  parasites  which  are  trees  self-grafted 
upon  trees — dominate  the  primitive  trunks,  overwhelm 
them,  usurp  the  place  of  their  foliage,  and  fall  back  to 
the  ground,  forming  factitious  weeping-willows.  You  do 
not  find  here,  as  in  the  great  forests  of  the  North,  the 
eternal  monotony  of  birch  and  fir :  this  is  the  kingdom 
of  infinite  variety; — species  the  most  diverse  elbow  each 
other,  interlace,  strangle  and  devour  each  other:  all  ranks 
and  orders  are  confounded,  as  in  a  human  mob.  The 
soft  and  tender  balisier  opens  its  parasol  of  leaves  be- 
side the  gommier,  which  is  the  cedar  of  the  colonies ; — 
you  see  the  acomat,  the  conrbaril,  the  mahogany,  the  ten- 
dre-a-caillou,  the  iron-wood  .  .  .  but  as  well  enumerate  by 
name  all  the  soldiers  of  an  army !  Our  oak,  the  balata, 
forces  the  palm  to  lengthen  itself  prodigiously  in  order 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  55 

to  get  a  few  thin  beams  of  sunlight ;  for  it  is  as  difficult 
here  for  the  poor  trees  to  obtain  one  glance  from  this 
King  of  the  world,  as  for  us,  subjects  of  a  monarchy,  to 
obtain  one  look  from  our  monarch.  As  for  the  soil,  it  is 
needless  to  think  of  looking  at  it :  it  lies  as  far  below  us 
probably  as  the  bottom  of  the  sea; — it  disappeared,  ever 
so  long  ago,  under  the  heaping  of  debris, — under  a  sort  of 
manure  that  has  been  accumulating  there  since  the  cre- 
ation :  you  sink  into  it  as  into  slime ;  you  walk  upon  pu- 
trefied trunks,  in  a  dust  that  has  no  name  !  Here  indeed 
it  is  that  one  can  get  some  comprehension  of  what  vege- 
table antiquity  signifies; — a  lurid  light  (lurida  lux),  green- 
ish, as  wan  at  noon  as  the  light  of  the  moon  at  midnight, 
confuses  forms  and  lends  them  a  vague  and  fantastic 
aspect;  a  mephitic  humidity  exhales  from  all  parts;  an 
odor  of  death  prevails ;  and  a  calm  which  is  not  silence 
(for  the  ear  fancies  it  can  hear  the  great  movement  of 
composition  and  of  decomposition  perpetually  going  on) 
tends  to  inspire  you  with  that  old  mysterious  horror  which 
the  ancients  felt  in  the  primitive  forests  of  Germany  and 
of  Gaul: 

" 'Arboribus  suus  horror  inest.'"* 


XVII. 

BUT  the  sense  of  awe  inspired  by  a  tropic  forest  is 
certainly  greater  than  the  mystic  fear  which  any  wooded 
wilderness  of  the  North  could  ever  have  created.  The 
brilliancy  of  colors  that  seem  almost  preternatural ;  the 
vastness  of  the  ocean  of  frondage,  and  the  violet  black- 
ness of  rare  gaps,  revealing  its  inconceived  profundity; 
and  the  million  mysterious  sounds  which  make  up  its 


*  "  Enquete  sur  le  Serpent  de  la  Martinique  (Vipere  Fer-de-Lance, 
Bothrops  Lanceole,  etc.)."  Par  le  Docteur  E.  Rufz.  2  ed.  1859. 
Paris:  Germer-Balliere.  pp.  55-57  (note). 


56  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

perpetual  murmur, — compel  the  idea  of  a  creative  force 
that  almost  terrifies.  Man  feels  here  like  an  insect, — 
fears  like  an  insect  on  the  alert  for  merciless  enemies; 
and  the  fear  is  not  unfounded.  To  enter  these  green 
abysses  without  a  guide  were  folly :  even  with  the  best 
of  guides  there  is  peril.  Nature  is  dangerous  here  :  the 
powers  that  build  are  also  the  powers  that  putrefy; 
here  life  and  death  are  perpetually  interchanging  office 
in  the  never-ceasing  transformation  of  forces, — melting 
down  and  reshaping  living  substance  simultaneously  with- 
in the  same  vast  crucible.  There  are  trees  distilling 
venom,  there  are  plants  that  have  fangs,  there  are  per- 
fumes that  affect  the  brain,  there  are  cold  green  creep- 
ers whose  touch  blisters  flesh  like  fire;  while  in  all  the 
recesses  and  the  shadows  is  a  swarming  of  unfamiliar 
life,  beautiful  or  hideous, — insect,  reptile,  bird, — inter- 
warring,  devouring,  preying.  .  .  .  But  the  great  peril  of 
the  forest — the  danger  which  deters  even  the  naturalist 
— is  the  presence  of  the  terrible  fer-de  lance  (trigonoceph- 
alus  lanceolatus, — bothrops  lanceolatus, — craspodecephalus], 
—deadliest  of  the  Occidental  thanatophidia,  and  prob- 
ably one  of  the  deadliest  serpents  of  the  known  world. 

.  .  .  There  are  no  less  than  eight  varieties  of  it, — the 
most  common  being  the  dark  gray,  speckled  with  black 
—precisely  the  color  that  enables  the  creature  to  hide 
itself  among  the  protruding  roots  of  the  trees,  by  simply 
coiling  about  them,  and  concealing  its  triangular  head. 
Sometimes  the  snake  is  a  clear  bright  yellow  :  then  it  is 
difficult  to  distinguish  it  from  the  bunch  of  bananas 
among  which  it  conceals  itself.  Or  the  creature  may  be 
a  dark  yellow, — or  a  yellowish  brown, — or  the  color  of 
wine-lees,  speckled  pink  and  black, — or  dead  black  with 
a  yellow  belly, — or  black  with  a  pink  belly  :  all  hues  of 
tropical  forest-mould,  of  old  bark,  of  decomposing  trees. 
.  .  .  The  iris  of  the  eye  is  orange, — with  red  flashes :  it 
glows  at  night  like  burning  charcoal. 


A  Midsunlmer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  57 

And  the  fer-de-lance  reigns  absolute  king  over  the 
mountains  and  the  ravines ;  he  is  lord  of  the  forest  and 
the  solitudes  by  day,  and  by  night  he  extends  his  domin- 
ion over  the  public  roads,  the  familiar  paths,  the  parks, 
the  pleasure  resorts.  People  must  remain  at  home  after 
dark,  unless  they  dwell  in  the  city  itself :  if  you  happen 
to  be  out  visiting  after  sunset,  only  a  mile  from  town, 
your  friends  will  caution  you  anxiously  not  to  follow  the 
boulevard  as  you  go  back,  and  to  keep  as  closely  as  pos- 
sible to  the  very  centre  of  the  path.  Even  in  the  bright- 
est noon  you  cannot  venture  to  enter  the  woods  without 
an  experienced  escort ;  you  cannot  trust  your  eyes  to  de- 
tect danger :  at  any  moment  a  seeming  branch,  a  knot 
of  lianas,  a  pink  or  gray  root,  a  clump  of  pendent  yellow 
fruit,  may  suddenly  take  life,  writhe,  stretch,  spring, 
strike.  .  .  .  Then  you  will  need  aid  indeed,  and  most 
quickly;  for  within  the  span  of  a  few  heart -beats  the 
wounded  flesh  chills,  tumefies,  softens.  Soon  it  changes 
color,  and  begins  to  spot  violaceously  ;  while  an  icy  cold- 
ness creeps  through  all  the  blood.  If  the  panseur  or  the 
physician  arrives  in  time,  and  no  vein  has  been  pierced, 
there  is  hope ;  but  it  more  often  happens  that  the  blow  is 
received  directly  on  a  vein  of  the  foot  or  ankle, — in  which 
case  nothing  can  save  the  victim.  Even  when  life  is 
saved  the  danger  is  not  over.  Necrosis  of  the  tissues  is 
likely  to  set  in :  the  flesh  corrupts,  falls  from  the  bone 
sometimes  in  tatters ;  and  the  colors  of  its  putrefaction 
simulate  the  hues  of  vegetable  decay, — the  ghastly  grays 
and  pinks  and  yellows  of  trunks  rotting  down  into  the 
dark  soil  which  gave  them  birth.  The  human  victim 
moulders  as  the  trees  moulder, — crumbles  and  dissolves 
as  crumbles  the  substance  of  the  dead  palms  and  bala- 
tas  :  the  Death-of-the-Woods  is  upon  him. 

To-day  a  fer-de-lance  is  seldom  found  exceeding  six  feet 
in  length;  but  the  dimensions  of  the  reptile,  at  least, 
would  seem  to  have  been  decreased  considerably  by 
5 


58  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

man's  warring  upon  it  since  the  time  of  Pere  Labat, 
who  mentions  having  seen  a  fer-de-lance  nine  feet  long 
and  five  inches  in  diameter.  He  also  speaks  of  a  cou- 
resse — a  beautiful  and  harmless  serpent  said  to  kill  the 
fer-de-lance  —  over  ten  feet  long  and  thick  as  a  man's 
leg;  but  a  large  couresse  is  now  seldom  seen.  The  ne- 
gro woodsmen  kill  both  creatures  indiscriminately;  and 
as  the  older  reptiles  are  the  least  likely  to  escape  ob- 
servation, the  chances  for  the  survival  of  extraordinary 
individuals  lessen  with  the  yearly  decrease  of  forest-area. 

.  .  .  But  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  number  of 
deadly  snakes  has  been  greatly  lessened  since  the  early 
colonial  period.  Each  female  produces  viviparously  from 
forty  to  sixty  young  at  a  birth.  The  favorite  haunts  of 
the  fer-de-lance  are  to  a  large  extent  either  inaccessible 
or  unexplored,  and  its  multiplication  is  prodigious.  It 
is  really  only  the  surplus  of  its  swarming  that  overpours 
into  the  cane-fields,  and  makes  the  public  roads  danger- 
ous after  dark; — yet  more  than  three  hundred  snakes 
have  been  killed  in  twelve  months  on  a  single  planta- 
tion. The  introduction  of  the  Indian  mongoos,  or  man- 
gouste  (ichneumon),  proved  futile  as  a  means  of  repress- 
ing the  evil.  The  mangouste  kills  the  fer-de-lance  when 
it  has  a  chance;  but  it  also  kills  fowls  and  sucks  their 
eggs,  which  condemns  it  irrevocably  with  the  country  ne- 
groes, who  live  to  a  considerable  extent  by  raising  and 
selling  chickens. 

.  .  .  Domestic  animals  are  generally  able  to  discern  the 
presence  of  their  deadly  enemy  long  before  a  human  eye 
can  perceive  it.  If  your  horse  rears  and  plunges  in  the 
darkness,  trembles  and  sweats,  do  not  try  to  ride  on  until 
you  are  assured  the  way  is  clear.  Or  your  dog  may  come 
running  back,  whining,  shivering  :  you  will  do  well  to  ac- 
cept his  warning.  The  animals  kept  about  country  resi- 
dences usually  try  to  fight  for  their  lives;  the  hen  battles 
for  her  chickens;  the  bull  endeavors  to  gore  and  stamp 


IN  THE  JARDIN    DES   I'LANTES,   ST.   PIERRE. 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  59 

his  supple  enemy;  the  pig  gives  more  successful  com- 
bat; but  the  creature  who  fears  the  monster  least  is  the 
brave  cat.  Seeing  a  snake,  she  at  once  carries  her  kit- 
tens to  a  place  of  safety,  then  boldly  advances  to  the 
encounter.  She  will  walk  to  the  very  limit  of  the  ser- 
pent's striking  range,  and  begin  to  feint, — teasing  him, 
startling  him,  trying  to  draw  his  blow.  How  the  emer- 
ald and  the  topazine  eyes  glow  then ! — they  are  flames ! 
A  moment  more  and  the  triangular  head,  hissing  from 
the  coil,  flashes  swift  as  if  moved  by  wings.  But  swifter 
still  the  stroke  of  the  armed  paw  that  dashes  the  horror 
aside,  flinging  it  mangled  in  the  dust.  Nevertheless, 
pussy  does  not  yet  dare  to  spring ; — the  enemy,  still  ac- 
tive, has  almost  instantly  reformed  his  coil ; — but  she  is 
again  in  front  of  him,  watching, — vertical  pupil  against 
vertical  pupil.  Again  the  lashing  stroke ;  again  the  beau- 
tiful countering; — again  the  living  death  is  hurled  aside; 
and  now  the  scaled  skin  is  deeply  torn, — one  eye  socket 
has  ceased  to  flame.  Once  more  the  stroke  of  the  ser- 
pent; once  more  the  light,  quick,  cutting  blow.  But  the 
trigonocephalus  is  blind,  is  stupefied ; — before  he  can 
attempt  to  coil  pussy  has  leaped  upon  him, — nailing  the 
horrible  flat  head  fast  to  the  ground  with  her  two  sinewy 
paws.  Now  let  him  lash,  writhe,  twine,  strive  to  strangle 
her ! — in  vain  !  he  will  never  lift  his  head :  an  instant 
more,  and  he  lies  still:  —  the  keen  white  teeth  of  the 
cat  have  severed  the  vertebra  just  behind  the  triangular 
skull !  .  .  . 

XVIII. 

THE  Jardin  des  Plantes  is  not  absolutely  secure  from 
the  visits  of  the  serpent ;  for  the  trigonocephalus  goes 
everywhere, —  mounting  to  the  very  summits  of  the 
cocoa-palms,  swimming  rivers,  ascending  walls,  hiding 
in  palm-thatched  roofs,  breeding  in  bagasse  heaps.  But, 
despite  what  has  been  printed  to  the  contrary,  this  reptile 


60  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

fears  man  and  hates  light:  it  rarely  shows  itself  volun- 
tarily during  the  day.  Therefore,  if  you  desire  to  ob- 
tain some  conception  of  the  magnificence  of  Martinique 
vegetation,  without  incurring  the  risk  of  entering  the 
high  woods,  you  can  do  so  by  visiting  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes, — only  taking  care  to  use  your  eyes  well  while 
climbing  over  fallen  trees,  or  picking  your  way  through 
dead  branches.  The  garden  is  less  than  a  mile  from 
the  city,  on  the  slopes  of  the  Morne  Parnasse ;  and  the 
primitive  forest  itself  has  been  utilized  in  the  formation 
of  it,  —  so  that  the  greater  part  of  the  garden  is  a 
primitive  growth.  Nature  has  accomplished  here  infi- 
nitely more  than  art  of  man  (though  such  art  has  done 
much  to  lend  the  place  its  charm), — and  until  within  a 
very  recent  time  the  result  might  have  been  deemed, 
without  exaggeration,  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world. 

A  moment  after  passing  the  gate  you  are  in  twilight, 
— though  the  sun  may  be  blinding  on  the  white  road 
without.  All  about  you  is  a  green  gloaming,  up  through 
which  you  see  immense  trunks  rising.  Follow  the  first 
path  that  slopes  up  on  your  left  as  you  proceed,  if  you 
wish  to  obtain  the  best  general  view  of  the  place  in  the 
shortest  possible  time.  As  you  proceed,  the  garden  on 
your  right  deepens  more  and  more  into  a  sort  of  ravine ; 
— on  your  left  rises  a  sort  of  foliage-shrouded  cliff ;  and 
all  this  in  a  beautiful  crepuscular  dimness,  made  by  the 
foliage  of  great  trees  meeting  overhead.  Palms  rooted 
a  hundred  feet  below  you  hold  their  heads  a  hun- 
dred feet  above  you;  yet  they  can  barely  reach  the 
light.  .  .  .  Farther  on  the  ravine  widens  to  frame  in  two 
tiny  lakes,  dotted  with  artificial  islands,  which  are  minia- 
tures of  Martinique,  Guadeloupe,  and  Dominica :  these 
are  covered  with  tropical  plants,  many  of  which  are  total 
strangers  even  here :  they  are  natives  of  India,  Sene- 
gambia,  Algeria,  and  the  most  eastern  East.  Arbores- 
cent ferns  of  unfamiliar  elegance  curve  up  from  path- 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  61 

verge  or  lake-brink ;  and  the  great  arbre-du-voyageur 
outspreads  its  colossal  fan.  Giant  lianas  droop  down 
over  the  way  in  loops  and  festoons;  tapering  green 
cords,  which  are  creepers  descending  to  take  root,  hang 
everywhere ;  and  parasites  with  stems  thick  as  cables 
coil  about  the  trees  like  boas.  Trunks  shooting  up  out 
of  sight,  into  the  green  wilderness  above,  display  no 
bark ;  you  cannot  guess  what  sort  of  trees  they  are ; 
they  are  so  thickly  wrapped  in  creepers  as  to  seem  pil- 
lars of  leaves.  Between  you  and  the  sky,  where  every- 
thing is  fighting  for  sun,  there  is  an  almost  unbroken 
vault  of  leaves,  a  cloudy  green  confusion  in  which  noth- 
ing particular  is  distinguishable. 

You  come  to  breaks  now  and  then  in  the  green  steep 
to  your  left, —  openings  created  for  cascades  pouring 
down  from  one  mossed  basin  of  brown  stone  to  anoth- 
er,—  or  gaps  occupied  by  flights  of  stone  steps,  green 
with  mosses,  and  chocolate-colored  by  age.  These  steps 
lead  to  loftier  paths  ;  and  all  the  stone-work, — the  grot- 
tos, bridges,  basins,  terraces,  steps,  —  are  darkened  by 
time  and  velveted  with  mossy  things.  ...  It  is  of  anoth- 
er century,  this  garden:  special  ordinances  were  passed 
concerning  it  during  the  French  Revolution  (An.  //.); — 
it  is  very  quaint ;  it  suggests  an  art  spirit  as  old  as 
Versailles,  or  older  ;  but  it  is  indescribably  beautiful 
even  now. 

...  At  last  you  near  the  end,  to  hear  the  roar  of  fall- 
ing water ; — there  is  a  break  in  the  vault  of  green  above 
the  bed  of  a  river  below  you  ;  and  at  a  sudden  turn  you 
come  in  sight  of  the  cascade.  Before  you  is  the  Morne 
itself ;  and  against  the  burst  of  descending  light  you  dis- 
cern a  precipice -verge.  Over  it,  down  one  green  fur- 
row in  .its  brow,  tumbles  the  rolling  foam  of  a  cataract, 
like  falling  smoke,  to  be  caught  below  in  a  succession  of 
moss-covered  basins.  The  first  clear  leap  of  the  water 
is  nearly  seventy  feet.  .  .  .  Did  Josephine  ever  rest  upon 


62  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

that  shadowed  bench  near  by  ?  ...  She  knew  all  these 
paths  by  heart:  surely  they  must  have  haunted  her 
dreams  in  the  after-time  !  . 

Returning  by  another  path,  you  may  have  a  view  of 
other  cascades  —  though  none  so  imposing.  But  they 
are  beautiful ;  and  you  will  not  soon  forget  the  effect  of 
one, —  flanked  at  its  summit  by  white -stemmed  palms 
which  lift  their  leaves  so  high  into  the  light  that  the  lof- 
tiness of  them  gives  the  sensation  of  vertigo.  .  .  .  Dizzy 
also  the  magnificence  of  the  great  colonnade  of  palm- 
istes  and  angelins,  two  hundred  feet  high,  through  which 
you  pass  if  you  follow  the  river-path  from  the  cascade, — 
the  famed  Allee  des  duels.  .  .  . 

The  vast  height,  the  pillared  solemnity  of  the  ancient 
trees  in  the  green  dimness,  the  solitude,  the  strangeness 
of  shapes  but  half  seenj — suggesting  fancies  of  silent  as- 
piration, or  triumph,  or  despair, — all  combine  to  produce 
a  singular  impression  of  awe.  .  .  .  You  are  alone  ;  you 
hear  no  human  voice, — no  sounds  but  the  rushing  of  the 
river  over  its  volcanic  rocks,  and  the  creeping  of  millions 
of  lizards  and  tree-frogs  and  little  toads.  You  see  no 
human  face ;  but  you  see  all  around  you  the  labor  of 
man  being  gnawed  and  devoured  by  nature, —  broken 
bridges,  sliding  steps,  fallen  arches,  strangled  fountains 
with  empty  basins ; — and  everywhere  arises  the  pungent 
odor  of  decay.  This  omnipresent  odor  affects  one  un- 
pleasantly; —  it  never  ceases  to  remind  you  that  where 
Nature  is  most  puissant  to  charm,  there  also  is  she  might- 
iest to  destroy. 

The  beautiful  garden  is  now  little  more  than  a  wreck 
of  what  it  once  was :  since  the  fall  of  the  Empire  it  has 
been  shamefully  abused  and  neglected.  Some  agronome 
sent  out  to  take  charge  of  it  by  the  Republic,  began 
its  destruction  by  cutting  down  acres  of  enormous  and 
magnificent  trees, — including  a  superb  alley  of  palms, — 
for  the  purpose  of  experimenting  with  roses.  But  the 


CASCADE   IN   THE  JARDIN   DES   PLANTES. 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  63 

rose-trees  would  not  be  cultivated  there;  and  the  ser- 
pents avenged  the  demolition  by  making  the  experi- 
mental garden  unsafe  to  enter; — they  always  swarm  into 
underbrush  and  shrubbery  after  forest-trees  have  been 
cleared  away.  .  .  .  Subsequently  the  garden  was  greatly 
damaged  by  storms  and  torrential  rains;  the  mountain 
river  overflowed,  carrying  bridges  away  and  demolishing 
stone-work.  No  attempt  was  made  to  repair  these  de- 
structions; but  neglect  alone  would  not  have  ruined  the 
loveliness  of  the  place; — barbarism  was  necessary!  Un- 
der the  present  negro-radical  regime  orders  have  been 
given  for  the  wanton  destruction  of  trees  older  than  the 
colony  itself; — and  marvels  that  could  not  be  replaced  in 
a  hundred  generations  were  cut  down  and  converted  into 
charcoal  for  the  use  of  public  institutions. 


XIX. 

.  .  .  How  gray  seem  the  words  of  poets  in  the  presence 
of  this  Nature !  .  .  .  The  enormous  silent  poem  of  color 
and  light — (you  who  know  only  the  North  do  not  know 
color,  do  not  know  light!) — of  sea  and  sky,  of  the  woods 
and  the  peaks,  so  far  surpasses  imagination  as  to  para- 
lyze it — mocking  the  language  of  admiration,  defying  all 
power  of  expression.  That  is  before  you  which  never 
can  be  painted  or  chanted,  because  there  is  no  cunning 
of  art  or  speech  able  to  reflect  it.  Nature  realizes  your 
most  hopeless  ideals  of  beauty,  even  as  one  gives  toys  to 
a  child.  And  the  sight  of  this  supreme  terrestrial  ex- 
pression of  creative  magic  numbs  thought.  In  the  great 
centres  of  civilization  we  admire  and  study  only  the  re- 
sults of  mind, — the  products  of  human  endeavor:  here 
one  views  only  the  work  of  Nature, — but  Nature  in  all 
her  primeval  power,  as  in  the  legendary  frostless  morn- 
ing  of  creation.  Man  here  seems  to  bear  scarcely  more 
relation  to  the  green  life  about  him  than  the  insect;  and 


64  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

the  results  of  human  effort  seem  impotent  by  compari- 
son with  the  operation  of  those  vast  blind  forces  which 
clothe  the  peaks  and  crown  the  dead  craters  with  impene- 
trable forest.  The  air  itself  seems  inimical  to  thought, — 
soporific,  and  yet  pregnant  with  activities  of  dissolution 
so  powerful  that  the  mightiest  tree  begins  to  melt  like 
wax  from  the  moment  it  has  ceased  to  live.  For  man 
merely  to  exist  is  an  effort;  and  doubtless  in  the  perpet- 
ual struggle  of  the  blood  to  preserve  itself  from  fermenta- 
tion, there  is  such  an  expenditure  of  vital  energy  as  leaves 
little  surplus  for  mental  exertion. 

.  .  .  Scarcely  less  than  poet  or  philosopher,  the  artist, 
I  fancy,  would  feel  his  helplessness.  In  the  city  he  may 
find  wonderful  picturesqueness  to  invite  his  pencil,  but 
when  he  stands  face  to  face  alone  with  Nature  he  will 
discover  that  he  has  no  colors  !  The  luminosities  of 
tropic  foliage  could  only  be  imitated  in  fire.  He  who 
desires  to  paint  a  West  Indian  forest, —  a  West  Indian 
landscape, — must  take  his  view  from  some  great  height, 
through  which  the  colors  come  to  his  eye  softened  and 
subdued  by  distance, — toned  with  blues  or  purples  by 
the  astonishing  atmosphere. 

...  It  is  sunset  as  I  write  these  lines,  and  there  are 
witchcrafts  of  color.  Looking  down  the  narrow,  steep 
street  opening  to  the  bay,  I  see  the  motionless  silhouette 
of  the  steamer  on  a  perfectly  green  sea, — under  a  lilac 
sky, — against  a  prodigious  orange  light. 


XX. 

IN  these  tropic  latitudes  Night  does  not  seem  "to 
fall," — to  descend  over  the  many-peaked  land :  it  ap- 
pears to  rise  up,  like  an  exhalation,  from  the  ground. 
The  coast-lines  darken  first ; — then  the  slopes  and  the 
lower  hills  and  valleys  become  shadowed ; — then,  very 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  65 

swiftly,  the  gloom  mounts  to  the  heights,  whose  very 
loftiest  peak  may  remain  glowing  like  a  volcano  at  its 
tip  for  several  minutes  after  the  rest  of  the  island  is 
veiled  in  blackness  and  all  the  stars  are  out.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Tropical  nights  have  a  splendor  that  seems  strange 
to  northern  eyes.  The  sky  does  not  look  so  high — so 
far  away  as  in  the  North  ;  but  the  stars  are  larger,  and 
the  luminosity  greater. 

With  the  rising  of  the  moon  all  the  violet  of  the  sky 
flushes  ; — there  is  almost  such  a  rose-color  as  heralds 
northern  dawn. 

Then  the  moon  appears  over  the  mornes,  very  large, 
very  bright — brighter  certainly  than  many  a  befogged 
sun  one  sees  in  northern  Novembers ;  and  it  seems  to 
have  a  weird  magnetism — this  tropical  moon.  Night- 
birds,  insects,  frogs, — everything  that  can  sing, — all  sing 
very  low  on  the  nights  of  great  moons.  Tropical  wood- 
life  begins  with  dark :  in  the  immense  white  light  of  a 
full  moon  this  nocturnal  life  seems  afraid  to  cry  out  as 
usual.  Also,  this  moon  has  a  singular  effect  on  the 
nerves.  It  is  very  difficult  to  sleep  on  such  bright 
nights :  you  feel  such  a  vague  uneasiness  as  the  coming 
of  a  great  storm  gives.  .  .  . 

XXI. 

You  reach  Fort-de-France,  the  capital  of  Martinique, 
by  steamer  from  St.  Pierre,  in  about  an  hour  and  a 
half.  .  .  .  There  is  an  overland  route—  La  Trace ;  but  it 
is  a  twenty-five-mile  ride,  and  a  weary  one  in  such  a  cli- 
mate, notwithstanding  the  indescribable  beauty  of  the 
landscapes  which  the  lofty  road  commands. 

.  .  .  Rebuilt  in  wood  after  the  almost  total  destruction 
by  an  earthquake  of  its  once  picturesque  streets  of  stone, 
Fort-de-France  (formerly  Fort-Royal)  has  little  of  out- 


66  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

ward  interest  by  comparison  with  St.  Pierre.  It  lies  in 
a  low,  moist  plain,  and  has  few  remarkable  buildings  : 
you  can  walk  all  over  the  little  town  in  about  half  an 
hour.  But  the  Savane, — the  great  green  public  square, 
with  its  grand  tamarinds  and  sabliers, — would  be  worth 
the  visit  alone,  even  were  it  not  made  romantic  by  the 
marble  memory  of  Josephine. 

I  went  to  look  at  the  white  dream  of  her  there,  a  creation 
of  master-sculptors.  ...  It  seemed  to  me  absolutely  lovely. 

Sea  winds  have  bitten  it;  tropical  rains  have  streaked 
it :  some  microscopic  growth  has  darkened  the  exqui- 
site hollow  of  the  throat.  And  yet  such  is  the  human 
charm  of  the  figure  that  you  almost  fancy  you  are  gaz- 
ing at  a  living  presence.  .  .  .  Perhaps  the  profile  is  less 
artistically  real, — statuesque  to  the  point  of  betraying 
the  chisel ;  but  when  you  look  straight  up  into  the  sweet 
Creole  face,  you  can  believe  she  lives  :  all  the  wonderful 
West  Indian  charm  of  the  woman  is  there. 

She  is  standing  just  in  the  centre  of  the  Savane,  robed 
in  the  fashion  of  the  First  Empire,  with  gracious  arms 
and  shoulders  bare  :  one  hand  leans  upon  a  medallion 
bearing  the  eagle  profile  of  Napoleon.  .  .  .  Seven  tall 
palms  stand  in  a  circle  around  her,  lifting  their  comely 
heads  into  the  blue  glory  of  the  tropic  day.  Within  their 
enchanted  circle  you  feel  that  you  tread  holy  ground, — 
the  sacred  soil  of  artist  and  poet; — here  the  recollec- 
tions of  memoir-writers  vanish  away;  the  gossip  of  his- 
tory is  hushed  for  you ;  you  no  longer  care  to  know 
how  rumor  has  it  that  she  spoke  or  smiled  or  wept: 
only  the  bewitchment  of  her  lives  under  the  thin,  soft, 
swaying  shadows  of  those  feminine  palms.  .  .  .  Over  violet 
space  of  summer  sea,  through  the  vast  splendor  of  azure 
light,  she  is  looking  back  to  the  place  of  her  birth,  back 
to  beautiful  drowsy  Trois-Islets,— and  always  with  the 
same  half -dreaming,  half -plaintive  smile, —  unutterably 
touching.  .  .  . 


STATUE   OF  JOSEPHINE. 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  67 

XXII. 

ONE  leaves  Martinique  with  regret,  even  after  so  brief 
a  stay  :  the  old  colonial  life  itself,  not  less  than  the  reve- 
lation of  tropic  nature,  having  in  this  island  a  quality  of 
uniqueness,  a  special  charm,  unlike  anything  previously 
seen.  .  .  .  We  steam  directly  for  Barbadoes ;  —  the  ves- 
sel will  touch  at  the  intervening  islands  only  on  her 
homeward  route. 

'  .  .  .  Against  a  hot  wind  south, — under  a  sky  always 
deepening  in  beauty.  Towards  evening  dark  clouds  be- 
gin to  rise  before  us ;  and  by  nightfall  they  spread  into 
one  pitch -blackness  over  all  the  sky.  Then  comes  a 
wind  in  immense  sweeps,  lifting  the  water, — but  a  wind 
that  is  still  strangely  warm.  The  ship  rolls  heavily  in 
the  dark  for  an  hour  or  more  ; — then  torrents  of  tepid 
rain  make  the  sea  smooth  again ;  the  clouds  pass,  and 
the  violet  transparency  of  tropical  night  reappears,— 
ablaze  with  stars. 

At  early  morning  a  long  lowland  appears  on  the  hori- 
zon,— totally  unlike  the  others  we  have  seen  ;  it  has  no 
visible  volcanic  forms.  That  is  Barbadoes, — a  level  burn- 
ing coral  coast, — a  streak  of  green,  white-edged,  on  the 
verge  of  the  sea.  But  hours  pass  before  the  green  line 
begins  to  show  outlines  of  foliage. 

...  As  we  approach  the  harbor  an  overhanging  black 
cloud  suddenly  bursts  down  in  illuminated  rain, — 
through  which  the  shapes  of  moored  ships  seem  magni- 
fied as  through  a  golden  fog.  It  ceases  as  suddenly  as 
it  begun ;  the  cloud  vanishes  utterly ;  and  the  azure  is 
revealed  unflecked,  dazzling,  wondrous.  ...  It  is  a  sight 
worth  the  whole  journey, — the  splendor  of  this  noon  sky 
at  Barbadoes  ; — the  horizon  glow  is  almost  blinding,  the 
sea-line  sharp  as  a  razor-edge;  and  motionless  upon 
the  sapphire  water  nearly  a  hundred  ships  lie, — masts, 
spars,  booms,  cordage,  cutting  against  the  amazing  mag- 


68  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

nificence  of  blue.  .  .  .  Meanwhile  the  island  coast  has 
clearly  brought  out  all  its  beauties  :  first  you  note  the 
long  white  winding  thread -line  of  beach — xoral  and 
bright  sand ; — then  the  deep  green  fringe  of  vegetation 
through  which  roofs  and  spires  project  here  and  there, 
and  quivering  feathery  heads  of  palms  with  white  trunks. 
The  general  tone  of  this  verdure  is  sombre  green,  though 
it  is  full  of  lustre :  there  is  a  glimmer  in  it  as  of  metal. 
Beyond  all  this  coast -front  long  undulations  of  misty 
pale  green  are  visible, — far  slopes  of  low  hill  and  plain ; 
the  highest  curving  line,  the  ridge  of  the  island,  bears  a 
row  of  cocoa-palms.  They  are  so  far  that  their  stems 
diminish  almost  to  invisibility :  only  the  crests  are  clear- 
ly distinguishable, — like  spiders  hanging  between  land 
and  sky.  But  there  are  no  forests  :  the  land  is  a  naked 
unshadowed  green  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  beyond  the 
coast -line.  There  is  no  waste  space  in  Barbadoes :  it 
is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  densely -peopled  places  on 
the  globe — (one  thousand  and  thirty-five  inhabitants  to 
the  square  mile) ; — and  it  sends  black  laborers  by  thou- 
sands to  the  other  British  colonies  every  year,  —  the 
surplus  of  its  population. 

.  .  .  The  city  of  Bridgetown  disappoints  the  stranger 
who  expects  to  find  any  exotic  features  of  architecture  or 
custom, — disappoints  more,  perhaps,  than  any  other  trop- 
ical port  in  this  respect.  Its  principal  streets  give  you 
the  impression  of  walking  through  an  English  town, — 
not  an  old-time  town,  but  a  new  one,  plain  almost  to 
commonplaceness,  in  spite  of  Nelson's  monument.  Even 
the  palms  are  powerless  to  lend  the  place  a  really 
tropical  look  ; — the  streets  are  narrow  without  being 
picturesque,  white  as  lime  roads  and  full  of  glare ; — the 
manners,  the  costumes,  the  style  of  living,  the  system  of 
business  are  thoroughly  English  ; — the  population  lacks 
visible  originality ;  and  its  extraordinary  activity,  so  odd- 
ly at  variance  with  the  quiet  indolence  of  other  West 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  69 

Indian  peoples,  seems  almost  unnatural.  Pressure  of 
numbers  has  largely  contributed  to  this  characteristic ; 
but  Barbadoes  would  be  in  any  event,  by  reason  of  posi- 
tion alone,  a  busy  colony.  As  the  most  windward  of  the 
West  Indies  it  has  naturally  become  not  only  the  chief 
port,  but  also  the  chief  emporium  of  the  Antilles.  .  It 
has  railroads,  telephones,  street -cars,  fire  and  life  in- 
surance companies,  good  hotels,  libraries  and  reading- 
rooms,  and  excellent  public  schools.  Its  annual  export 
trade  figures  for  nearly  $6,000,000. 

The  fact  which  seems  most  curious  to  the  stranger,  on 
his  jfirst  acquaintance  with  the  city,  is  that  most  of  this 
business  activity  is  represented  by  black  men— black 
merchants,  shopkeepers,  clerks.  Indeed,  the  Barbadian 
population,  as  a  mass,  strikes  one  as  the  darkest  in  the 
West  Indies.  Black  regiments  march  through  the  street 
to  the  sound  of  English  music, — uniformed  as  Zouaves ; 
black  police,  in  white  helmets  and  white  duck  uniforms, 
maintain  order ;  black  postmen  distribute  the  mails ; 
black  cabmen  wait  for  customers  at  a  shilling  an  hour. 
It  is  by  no  means  an  attractive  population,  physically, — 
rather  the  reverse,  and  frankly  brutal  as  well — different 
as  possible  from  the  colored  race  of  Martinique ;  but  it 
has  immense  energy,  and  speaks  excellent  English.  One 
is  almost  startled  on  hearing  Barbadian  negroes  speaking 
English  with  a  strong  Old  Country  accent.  Without  see- 
ing the  speaker,  you  could  scarcely  believe  such  English 
uttered  by  black  lips ;  and  the  commonest  negro  laborer 
about  the  port  pronounces  as  well  as  a  Londoner.  The 
purity  of  Barbadian  English  is  partly  due,  no  doubt,  to 
the  fact  that,  unlike  most  of  the  other  islands,  Barbadoes 
has  always  remained  in  the  possession  of  Great  Britain. 
Even  as  far  back  as  1676  Barbadoes  was  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent condition  of  prosperity  from  that  of  the  other  col- 
onies, and  offered  a  totally  different  social  aspect — hav- 
ing a  white  population  of  50,000.  At  that  time  the  island 


70  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

could  muster  20,000  infantry  and  3000  horse ;  there  were 
80,000  slaves;  there  were  1500  houses  in  Bridgetown 
and  an  immense  number  of  shops  ;  and  not  less  than  two 
hundred  ships  were  required  to  export  the  annual  sugar 
crop  alone. 

But  Barbadoes  differs  also  from  most  of  the  Antilles 
geologically ;  and  there  can  be  no  question  that  the  nat- 
ure of  its  soil  has  considerably  influenced  the  physical 
character  of  its  inhabitants.  Although  Barbadoes  is 
now  known  to  be  also  of  volcanic  origin, — a  fact  which 
its  low  undulating  surface  could  enable  no  unscientific 
observer  to  suppose, — it  is  superficially  a  calcareous  for- 
mation; and  the  remarkable  effect  of  limestone  soil  upon 
the  bodily  development  of  a  people  is  not  less  marked 
in  this  latitude  than  elsewhere.  In  most  of  the  Antilles 
the  white  race  degenerates  and  dwarfs  under  the  influ- 
ence of  climate  and  environment ;  but  the  Barbadian 
Creole — tall,  muscular,  large  of  bone  —  preserves  and 
perpetuates  in  the  tropics  the  strength  and  sturdiness 
of  his  English  forefathers. 

XXIII. 

.  .  .  NIGHT  :  steaming  for  British  Guiana ; — we  shall 
touch  at  no  port  before  reaching  Demerara.  ...  A  strong 
warm  gale,  that  compels  the  taking  in  of  every  awning 
and  wind-sail.  Driving  tepid  rain ;  and  an  intense  dark- 
ness, broken  only  by  the  phosphorescence  of  the  sea, 
which  to-night  displays  extraordinary  radiance. 

The  steamer's  wake  is  a  great  broad,  seething  river 
of  fire, — white  like  strong  moonshine  :  the  glow  is  bright 
enough  to  read  by.  At  its  centre  the  trail  is  brightest; — 
towards  either  edge  it  pales  off  cloudily, — curling  like 
smoke  of  phosphorus.  Great  sharp  lights  burst  up  mo- 
mentarily through  it  like  meteors.  Weirder  than  this 
strange  wake  are  the  long  slow  fires  that  keep  burning 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  71 

about  us  at  a  distance,  out  in  the  dark.  Nebulous  in- 
candescences mount  up  from  the  depths,  change  form, 
and  pass;  —  serpentine  flames  wriggle  by; — there  are 
long  billowing  crests  of  fire.  These  seem  to  be  formed 
of  millions  of  tiny  sparks,  that  light  up  all  at  the  same 
time,  glow  for  a  while,  disappear,  reappear,  and  swirl 
away  in  a  prolonged  smouldering. 

There  are  warm  gales  and  heavy  rain  each  night, — 
it  is  the  hurricane  season  ; — and  it  seems  these  become 
more  violent  the  farther  south  we  sail.  But  we  are  near- 
ing  those  equinoctial  regions  where  the  calm  of  nature  is 
never  disturbed  by  storms. 

.  .  .  Morning:  still  steaming  south,  through  a  vast  blue 
day.  The  azure  of  the  heaven  always  seems  to  be  grow- 
ing deeper.  There  is  a  bluish-white  glow  in  the  hori- 
zon,— almost  too  bright  to  look  at.  An  indigo  sea.  .  .  . 
There  are  no  clouds ;  and  the  splendor  endures  until 
sunset. 

Then  another  night,  very  luminous  and  calm.  The 
Southern  constellations  burn  whitely.  .  .  .  We  are  near- 
ing  the  great  shallows  of  the  South  American  coast. 

XXIV. 

...  IT  is  the  morning  of  the  third  day  since  we  left 
Barbadoes,  and  for  the  first  time  since  entering  tropic 
waters  all  things  seem  changed.  The  atmosphere  is 
heavy  with  strange  mists:  and  the  light  of  an  orange-col- 
ored sun,  immensely  magnified  by  vapors,  illuminates  a 
greenish-yellow  sea, — foul  and  opaque,  as  if  stagnant. .  . . 
I  remember  just  such  a  sunrise  over  the  Louisiana  gulf- 
coast. 

We  are  in  the  shallows,  moving  very  slowly.  The  line- 
caster  keeps  calling,  at  regular  intervals :  "  Quarter  less 
five,  sir !"  "And  a  half  four,  sir!".  .  .  There  is  little  vari- 
ation in  his  soundings — a  quarter  of  a  fathom  or  half  a 


72  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

fathom  difference.  The  warm  air  has  a  sickly  heaviness, 
like  the  air  of  a  swamp;  the  water  shows  olive  and  ochre- 
ous  tones  alternately; — the  foam  is  yellow  in  our  wake. 
These  might  be  the  colors  of  a  fresh -water  inunda- 
tion. .  .  . 

A  fellow-traveller  tells  me,  as  we  lean  over  the  rail, 
that  this  same  viscous,  glaucous  sea  washes  the  great 
penal  colony  of  Cayenne  — which  he  visited.  When  a 
convict  dies  there,  the  corpse,  sewn  up  in  a  sack,  is 
borne  to  the  water,  and  a  great  bell  tolled.  Then  the 
still  surface  is  suddenly  broken  by  fins  innumerable, — 
black  fins  of  sharks  rushing  to  the  hideous  funeral :  they 
know  the  Bell ! .  .  . 

There  is  land  in  sight — very  low  land, — a  thin  dark 
line  suggesting  marshiness;  and  the  nauseous  color  of 
the  water  always  deepens. 

As  the  land  draws  near,  it  reveals  a  beautiful  tropical 
appearance.  The  sombre  green  line  brightens  color, 
sharpens  into  a  splendid  fringe  of  fantastic  evergreen 
fronds,  bristling  with  palm  crests.  Then  a  mossy  sea- 
wall comes  into  sight — dull  gray  stone-work,  green-lined 
at  all  its  joints.  There  is  a  fort.  The  steamer's  whistle 
is  exactly  mocked  by  a  queer  echo,  and  the  cannon-shot 
once  reverberated — only  once :  there  are  no  mountains 
here  to  multiply  a  sound.  And  all  the  while  the  wa- 
ter becomes  a  thicker  and  more  turbid  green ;  the  wake 
looks  more  and  more  ochreous,  the  foam  ropier  and  yel- 
lower. Vessels  becalmed  everywhere  speck  the  glass- 
level  of  the  sea,  like  insects  sticking  upon  a  mirror.  It 
begins,  all  of  a  sudden,  to  rain  torrentially;  and  through 
the  white  storm  of  falling  drops  nothing  is  discernible. 

XXV. 

AT  Georgetown,  steamers  entering  the  river  can  lie 
close  to  the  wharf ; — we  can  enter  the  Government  ware- 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  tJie  Tropics.  73 

houses  without  getting  wet.  In  fifteen  minutes  the 
shower  ceases  ;  and  we  leave  the  warehouses  to  find  our- 
selves in  a  broad,  palm-bordered  street  illuminated  by 
the  most  prodigious  day  that  yet  shone  upon  our  voyage. 
The  rain  has  cleared  the  air  and  dissolved  the  mists; 
and  the  light  is  wondrous. 

My  own  memory  of  Demerara  will  always  be  a  mem- 
ory of  enormous  light.  The  radiance  has  an  indescrib- 
able dazzling  force  that  conveys  the  idea  of  electric 
fire; — the  horizon  blinds  like  a  motionless  sheet  of 
lightning  ;  and  you  dare  not  look  at  the  zenith.  .  .  . 
The  brightest  summer-day  in  the  North  is  a  gloaming 
to  this.  Men  walk  only  under  umbrellas,  or  with  their 
eyes  down  ;  and  the  pavements,  already  dry,  flare  almost 
unbearably. 

.  .  .  Georgetown  has  an  exotic  aspect  peculiar  to  it- 
self,—  different  from  that  of  any  West  Indian  city  we 
have  seen;  and  this  is  chiefly  due  to  the  presence  of 
palm-trees.  For  the  edifices,  the  plan,  the  general  idea 
of  the  town,  are  modern ;  the  white  streets,  laid  out  very 
broad  to  the  sweep  of  the  sea-breeze,  and  drained  by 
canals  running  through  their  centres,  with  bridges  at 
cross  -  streets,  display  the  value  of  nineteenth- century 
knowledge  regarding  house-building  with  a  view  to  cool- 
ness as  well  as  to  beauty.  The  architecture  might  be 
described  as  a  tropicalized  Swiss  style — Swiss  eaves  are 
developed  into  veranda  roofs,  and  Swiss  porches  pro- 
longed and  lengthened  into  beautiful  piazzas  and  bal- 
conies. The  men  who  devised  these  large  cool  halls, 
these  admirably  ventilated  rooms,  these  latticed  windows 
opening  to  the  ceiling,  may  have  lived  in  India ;  but  the 
physiognomy  of  the  town  also  reveals  a  fine  sense  of 
beauty  in  the  designers :  all  that  is  strange  and  beauti- 
ful in  the  vegetation  of  the  tropics  has  had  a  place  con- 
trived for  it,  a  home  prepared  for  it.  Each  dwelling  has 
its  garden ;  each  garden  blazes  with  singular  and  lovely 


74  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

color;  but  everywhere  and  always  tower  the  palms. 
There  are  colonnades  of  palms,  clumps  of  palms,  groves 
of  palms — sago  and  cabbage  and  cocoa  and  fan  palms. 
You  can  see  that  the  palm  is  cherished  here,  is  loved 
for  its  beauty,  like  a  woman.  Everywhere  you  find 
palms,  in  all  stages  of  development,  from  the  first  sheaf 
of  tender  green  plumes  rising  above  the  soil  to  the  won- 
derful colossus  that  holds  its  head  a  hundred  feet  above 
the  roofs  ;  palms  border  the  garden  walks  in  colonnades ; 
they  are  grouped  in  exquisite  poise  about  the  basins  of 
fountains  ;  they  stand  like  magnificent  pillars  at  either 
side  of  gates  ;  they  look  into  the  highest  windows  of 
public  buildings  and  hotels. 

.  .  .  For  miles  and  miles  and  miles  we  drive  along  av- 
enues of  palms — avenues  leading  to  opulent  cane-fields, 
traversing  queer  coolie  villages.  Rising  on  either  side 
of  the  road  to  the  same  level,  the  palms  present  the  vista 
of  a  long  unbroken  double  colonnade  of  dead -silver 
trunks,  shining  tall  pillars  with  deep  green  plume-tufted 
summits,  almost  touching,  almost  forming  something  like 
the  dream  of  an  interminable  Moresque  arcade.  Some- 
times for  a  full  mile  the  trees  are  only  about  thirty  or 
forty  feet  high ;  then,  turning  into  an  older  alley,  we 
drive  for  half  a  league  between  giants  nearly  a  hundred 
feet  in  altitude.  The  double  perspective  lines  of  their 
crests,  meeting  before  us  and  behind  us  in  a  bronze- 
green  darkness,  betray  only  at  long  intervals  any  varia- 
tion of  color,  where  some  dead  leaf  droops  like  an  im- 
mense yellow  feather. 

XXVI. 

IN  the  marvellous  light,  which  brings  out  all  the  rings 
of  their  bark,  these  palms  sometimes  produce  a  singular 
impression  of  subtle,  fleshy,  sentient  life, — seem  to  move 
with  a  slowly  stealthy  motion  as  you  ride  or  drive  past 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  75 

them.  The  longer  you  watch  them,  the  stronger  this 
idea  becomes,  —  the  more  they  seem  alive, — the  more 
their  long  silver-gray  articulated  bodies  seem  to  poise, 
undulate,  stretch.  .  .  .  Certainly  the  palms  of  a  Demerara 
country -road  evoke  no  such  real  emotion  as  that  pro- 
duced by  the  stupendous  palms  of  the  Jardin  des  Plantes 
in  Martinique..  That  beautiful,  solemn,  silent  life  up- 
reaching  through  tropical  forest  to  the  sun  for  warmth, 
for  color,  for  power, — filled  me,  I  remember,  with  a  sen- 
sation of  awe  different  from  anything  which  I  had  ever 
experienced.  .  .  .,  But  even  here  in  Guiana,  standing  alone 
under  the  sky,  the  palm  still  seems  a  creature  rather 
than  a  tree, — gives  you  the  idea  of  personality ; — you 
could  almost  believe  each  lithe  shape  animated  by  a 
thinking  force, — believe  that  all  are  watching  you  with 
such  passionless  calm  as  legend  lends  to  beings  super- 
natural. .  .  .  And  I  wonder  if  some  kindred  fancy  might 
not  have  inspired  the  name  given  by  the  French  colonists 
to  the  male  palmiste, — angelin.  .  .  . 

Very  wonderful  is  the  botanical  garden  here.  It  is 
new  ;  and  there. are  no  groves,  no  heavy  timber,  no  shade ; 
but  the  finely  laid-out  grounds, — alternations  of  lawn  and 
flower-bed, —  offer  everywhere  surprising  sights.  You 
observe  curious  orange-colored  shrubs  ;  plants  speckled 
with  four  different  colors;  plants  that  look  like  wigs  of 
green  hair;  plants  with  enormous  broad  leaves  that  seem 
made  of  colored  crystal ;  plants  that  do  not  look  like  nat- 
ural growths,  but  like  idealizations  of  plants, — those  beau- 
tiful fantasticalities  imagined  by  sculptors.  All  these  we 
see  in  glimpses  from  a  carriage- window, — yellow,  indi- 
go, black,  and  crimson  plants.  .  .  .  We  draw  rein  only  to 
observe  in  the  ponds  the  green  navies  of  the  Victoria 
Regia, —  the  monster  among  water-lilies.  It  covers  all 
the  ponds  and  many  of  the  canals.  Close  to  shore  the 
leaves  are  not  extraordinarily  large  ;  but  they  increase 


76  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

in  breadth  as  they  float  farther  out,  as  if  gaining  bulk 
proportionately  to  the  depth  of  water.  A  few  yards  off, 
they  are  large  as  soup-plates  ;  farther  out,  they  are  broad 
as  dinner-trays ;  in  the  centre  of  the  pond  or  canal  they 
have  surface  large  as  tea-tables.  And  all  have  an  up- 
turned edge,  a  perpendicular  rim.  Here  and  there  you 
see  the  imperial  flower, — towering  above  the  leaves.  . .  . 
Perhaps,  if  your  hired  driver  be  a  good  guide,  he  will 
show  you  the  snake-nut, — the  fruit  of  an  extraordinary 
tree  native  to  the  Guiana  forests.  This  swart  nut — 
shaped  almost  like  a  clam-shell,  and  halving  in  the  same 
way  along  its  sharp  edges — encloses  something  almost 
incredible.  There  is  a  pale  envelope  about  the  kernel; 
remove  it,  and  you  find  between  your  fingers  a  little 
viper,  triangular -headed,  coiled  thrice  upon  itself,  per- 
fect in  every  detail  of  form  from  head  to  tail.  Was 
this  marvellous  mockery  evolved  for  a  protective  end  ? 
It  is  no  eccentricity  :  in  every  nut  the  serpent- kernel 
lies  coiled  the  same. 

.  .  .  Yet  in  spite  of  a  hundred  such  novel  impressions, 
what  a  delight  it  is  to  turn  again  cityward  through  the 
avenues  of  palms,  and  to  feel  once  more  the  sensation 
of  being  watched,  without  love  or  hate,  by  all  those  lithe, 
tall,  silent,  gracious  shapes  ! 

XXVII. 

HINDOOS;  coolies;  men,  women,  and  children — stand- 
ing, walking,  or  sitting  in  the  sun,  under  the  shadowing 
of  the  palms.  Men  squatting,  with  hands  clasped  over 
their  black  knees,  are  watching  us  from  under  their 
white  turbans— very  steadily,  with  a  slight  scowl.  All 
these  Indian  faces  have  the  same  set,  stern  expression, 
the  same  knitting  of  the  brows ;  and  the  keen  gaze  is 
not  altogether  pleasant.  It  borders  upon  hostility  ;  it  is 
the  look  of  measurement  —  measurement  physical  and 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  77 

moral.  In  the  mighty  swarming  of  India  these  have 
learned  the  full  meaning  and  force  of  life's  law  as  we 
Occidentals  rarely  learn  it.  Under  the  dark  fixed  frown 
the  eye  glitters  like  a  serpent's. 

Nearly  all  wear  the  same  Indian  dress  ;  the  thickly 
folded  turban,  usually  white,  white  drawers  reaching  but 
half-way  down  the  thigh,  leaving  the  knees  and  the  legs 
bare,  and  white  jacket.  A  few  don  long  blue  robes,  and 
wear  a  colored  head-dress :  these  are  babagees — priests. 
Most  of  the  men  look  tall ;  they  are  slender  and  small- 
boned,  but  the  limbs  are  well  turned.  They  are  grave 
— talk  in  low  tones,  and  seldom  smile.  Those  you  see 
with  heavy  black  beards  are  probably  Mussulmans :  I 
am  told  they  have  their  mosques  here,  and  that  the  muez- 
zin's call  to  prayer  is  chanted  three  times  daily  on  many 
plantations.  Others  shave,  but  the  Mohammedans  al- 
low all  the  beard  to  grow.  .  .  .  Very  comely  some  of  the 
women  are  in  their  close-clinging  soft  brief  robes  and 
tantalizing  veils — a  costume  leaving  shoulders,  arms,  and 
ankles  bare.  The  dark  arm  is  always  tapered  and  round- 
ed ;  the  silver-circled  ankle  always  elegantly  knit  to  the 
light  straight  foot.  Many  slim  girls,  whether  standing 
or  walking  or  in  repose,  offer  remarkable  studies  of 
grace ;  their  attitude  when  erect  always  suggests  light- 
ness and  suppleness,  like  the  poise  of  a  dancer. 

...  A  coolie  mother  passes,  carrying  at  her  hip  a  very 
pretty  naked  baby.  It  has  exquisite  delicacy  of  limb  : 
its  tiny  ankles  are  circled  by  thin  bright  silver  rings  ;  it 
looks  like  a  little  bronze  statuette,'  a  statuette  of  Kama, 
the  Indian  Eros.  The  mother's  arms  are  covered  from 
elbow  to  wrist  with  silver  bracelets, — some  flat  and  dec- 
orated ;  others  coarse,  round,  smooth,  with  ends  ham- 
mered into  the  form  of  viper-heads.  She  has  large  flow- 
ers of  gold  in  her  ears,  a  small  gold  flower  in  her  very 
delicate  little  nose.  This  nose  ornament  does  not  seem 
absurd  ;  on  these  dark  skins  the  effect  is  almost  as  pleas- 


78  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

ing  as  it  is  bizarre.  This  jewellery  is  pure  metal ; — it  is 
thus  the  coolies  carry  their  savings, — melting  down  silver 
or  gold  coin,  and  recasting  it  into  bracelets,  ear-rings, 
and  nose  ornaments. 

.  .  .  Evening  is  brief :  all  this  time  the  days  have  been 
growing  shorter :  it  will  be  black  at  6  P.M.  One  does 
not  regret  it ; — the  glory  of  such  a  tropical  day  as  this  is 
almost  too  much  to  endure  for  twelve  hours.  The  sun 
is  already  low,  and  yellow  with  a  tinge  of  orange  :  as  he 
falls  between  the  palms  his  stare  colors  the  world  with 
a  strange  hue — such  a  phantasmal  light  as  might  be 
given  by  a  nearly  burnt-out  sun.  The  air  is  full  of  un- 
familiar odors.  We  pass  a  flame-colored  bush;  and  an 
extraordinary  perfume  —  strange,  rich,  sweet  —  envelops 
us  like  a  caress :  the  soul  of  a  red  jasmine.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  What  a  tropical  sunset  is  this — within  two  days' 
steam  -  journey  of  the  equator!  Almost  to  the  zenith 
the  sky  flames  up  from  the  sea, — one  tremendous  orange 
incandescence,  rapidly  deepening  to  vermilion  as  the 
sun  dips.  The  indescribable  intensity  of  this  mighty 
burning  makes  one  totally  unprepared  for  the  spectacle 
of  its  sudden  passing :  a  seeming  drawing  down  behind 
the  sea  of  the  whole  vast  flare  of  light.  .  .  .  Instantly  the 
world  becomes  indigo.  The  air  grows  humid,  weighty 
with  vapor ;  frogs  commence  to  make  a  queer  bubbling 
noise;  and  some  unknown  creature  begins  in  the  trees 
a  singular  music,  not  trilling,  like  the  note  of  our  cricket, 
but  one  continuous  shrill  tone,  high,  keen,  as  of  a  thin 
jet  of  steam  leaking  through  a  valve.  Strong  vegetal 
scents,  aromatic  and  novel,  rise  up.  Under  the  trees  of 
our  hotel  I  hear  a  continuous  dripping  sound ;  the  drops 
fall  heavily,  like  bodies  of  clumsy  insects.  But  it  is  not 
dew,  nor  insects ;  it  is  a  thick,  transparent  jelly — a  fleshy 
liquor  that  falls  in  immense  drops.  .  .  .  The  night  grows 
chill  with  dews,  with  vegetable  breath ;  and  we  sleep 
with  windows  nearly  closed. 


DEMERARA    COOLIE    GIRL. 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  79 

XXVIII. 

.  .  .  ANOTHER  sunset  like  the  conflagration  of  a  world, 
as  we  steam  away  from  Guiana; — another  unclouded 
night ;  and  morning  brings  back  to  us  that  bright  blue 
in  the  sea-water  which  we  missed  for  the  first  time  on 
our  approach  to  the  main-land.  There  is  a  long  swell 
all  day,  and  tepid  winds.  But  towards  evening  the  water 
once  more  shifts  its  hue — takes  olive  tint — the  mighty 
flood  of  the  Orinoco  is  near. 

Over  the  rim  of  the  sea  rise  shapes  faint  pink,  faint 
gray — misty  shapes  that  grow  and  lengthen  as  we  ad- 
vance. We  are  nearing  Trinidad. 

It  first  takes  definite  form  as  a  prolonged,  undulating, 
pale  gray  mountain  chain, — the  outline  of  a  sierra.  Ap- 
proaching nearer,  we  discern  other  hill  summits  round- 
ing up  and  shouldering  away  behind  the  chain  itself. 
Then  the  nearest  heights  begin  to  turn  faint  green — 
very  slowly.  Right  before  the  outermost  spur  of  cliff, 
fantastic  shapes  of  rock  are  rising  sheer  from  the  water : 
partly  green,  partly  reddish-gray  where  the  surface  re- 
mains unclothed  by  creepers  and  shrubs.  Between 
them  the  sea  leaps  and  whitens. 

.  .  .  And  we  begin  to  steam  along  a  magnificent  trop- 
ical coast, — before  a  billowing  of  hills  wrapped  in  forest 
from  sea  to  summit, — astonishing  forest,  dense,  sombre, 
impervious  to  sun  —  every  gap  a  blackness  as  of  ink. 
Giant  palms  here  and  there  overtop  the  denser  foliage; 
and  queer  monster  trees  rise  above  the  forest -level 
against  the  blue, — spreading  out  huge  flat  crests  from 
which  masses  of  lianas  stream  down.  This  forest-front 
has  the  apparent  solidity  of  a  wall,  and  forty-five  miles 
of  it  undulate  uninterruptedly  by  us  —  rising  by  ter- 
races, or  projecting  like  turret-lines,  or  shooting  up  into 
semblance  of  cathedral  forms  or  suggestions  of  castel- 
lated architecture.  .  .  But  the  secrets  of  these  woods 


8o  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

have  not  been  unexplored;  —  one  of  the  noblest  writ- 
ers of  our  time  has  so  beautifully  and  fully  written  of 
them  as  to  leave  little  for  any  one  else  to  say.  He  who 
knows  Charles  Kingsley's  "At  Last  "  probably  knows  the 
woods  of  Trinidad  far  better  than  many  who  pass  them 
daily. 

Even  as  observed  from  the  steamer's  deck,  the  mount- 
ains and  forests  of  Trinidad  have  an  aspect  very  dif- 
ferent from  those  of  the  other  Antilles.  The  heights  are 
less  lofty, — less  jagged  and  abrupt,  -with  rounded  sum- 
mits ;  the  peaks  of  Martinique  or  Dominica  rise  fully 
two  thousand  feet  higher.  The  land  itself  is  a  totally 
different  formation,  —  anciently  being  a  portion  of  the 
continent;  and  its  flora  and  fauna  are  of  South  America. 

.  .  .  There  comes  a  great  cool  whiff  of  wind, — another 
and  another;  —  then  a  mighty  breath  begins  to  blow 
steadily  upon  us,  —  the  breath  of  the  Orinoco.  ...  It 
grows  dark  before  we  pass  through  the  Ape's  Mouth,  to 
anchor  in  one  of  the  calmest  harbors  in  the  world, — 
never  disturbed  by  hurricanes.  Over  unruffled  water  the 
lights  of  Port-of-Spain  shoot  long  still  yellow  beams.  .  .  . 
The  night  grows  chill ; — the  air  is  made  frigid  by  the 
breath  of  the  enormous  river  and  the  vapors  of  the 
great  woods. 

XXIX. 

.  .  .  SUNRISE  :  a  morning  of  supernal  beauty, — the  sky 
of  a  fairy  tale,  — the  sea  of  a  love-poem. 

Under  a  heaven  of  exquisitely  tender  blue,  the  whole 
smooth  sea  has  a  perfect  luminous  dove-color,— the  hori- 
zon being  filled  to  a  great  height  with  greenish-golden 
haze, — a  mist  of  unspeakably  sweet  tint,  a  hue  that,  imi- 
tated in  any  aquarelle,  would  be  cried  out  against  as  an  im- 
possibility. As  yet  the  hills  are  nearly  all  gray,  the  for- 
ests also  inwrapping  them  are  gray  and  ghostly,  for  the 
sun  has  but  just  risen  above  them,  and  vapors  hang  like 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  81 

a  veil  between:  Then,  over  the  glassy  level  of  the  flood, 
bands  of  purple  and  violet  and  pale  blue  and  fluid  gold 
begin  to  shoot  and  quiver  and  broaden  ;  these  are  the 
currents  of  the  morning,  catching  varying  color  with  the 
deepening  of  the  day  and  the  lifting  of  the  tide. 

Then,  as  the  sun  rises  higher,  green  masses  begin  to 
glimmer  among  the  grays ;  the  outlines  of  the  forest 
summits  commence  to  define  themselves  through  the  va- 
pory light,  to  left  and  right  of  the  great  glow.  Only  the 
city  still  remains  invisible ;  it  lies  exactly  between  us  and 
the  downpour  of  solar  splendor,  and  the  mists  there  have 
caught  such  radiance  that  the  place  seems  hidden  by  a 
fog  of  fire.  Gradually  the  gold -green  of  the  horizon 
changes  to  a  pure  yellow ;  the  hills  take  soft,  rich,  sen- 
suous colors.  One  of  the  more  remote  has  turned  a 
marvellous  tone — a  seemingly  diaphanous  aureate  color, 
the  very  ghost  of  gold.  But  at  last  all  of  them  sharpen 
bluely,  show  bright  folds  and  ribbings  of  green  through 
their  haze.  The  valleys  remain  awhile  clouded,  as  if 
filled  with  something  like  blue  smoke ;  but  the  project- 
ing masses  of  cliff  and  slope  swiftly  change  their  misty 
green  to  a  warmer  hue.  All  these  tints  and  colors  have 
a  spectral  charm,  a  preternatural  loveliness;  everything 
seems  subdued,  softened,  semi-vaporized, — the  only  very 
sharply  defined  silhouettes  being  those  of  the  little  be1- 
calmed  ships  sprinkling  the  western  water,  all  spreading 
colored  wings  to  catch  the  morning  breeze. 

The  more  the  sun  ascends,  the  more  rapid  the  devel- 
opment of  the  landscape  out  of  vapory  blue ;  the  hills  all 
become  green-faced,  reveal  the  details  of  frondage.  The 
wind  fills  the  waiting  sails — white,  red,  yellow, — ripples 
the  water,  and  turns  it  green.  Little  fish  begin  to  leap; 
they  spring  and  fall  in  glittering  showers  like  opalescent 
blown  spray.  And  at  last,  through  the  fading  vapor, 
dew-glittering  red-tiled  roofs  reveal  themselves  :  the  city 
is  unveiled — a  city  full  of  color,  somewhat  quaint,  some- 


82  A  Midsummer  7^rip  to  the  Tropics. 

what  Spanish-looking — a  little  like  St.  Pierre,  a  little  like 
New  Orleans  in  the  old  quarter;  everywhere  fine  tall 
palms. 

XXX. 

ASHORE,  through  a  black  swarming  and  a  great  hum 
of  Creole  chatter.  .  .  .  Warm  yellow  narrow  streets  un- 
der a  burning  blue  day; — a  confused  impression  of  long 
vistas,  of  low  pretty  houses  and  cottages,  more  or  less 
quaint,  bathed  in  sun  and  yellow- wash,  —  and  avenues 
of  shade-trees, — and  low  garden-walls  overtopped  by  wav- 
ing banana  leaves  and  fronds  of  palms.  ...  A  general 
sensation  of  drowsy  warmth  and  vast  light  and  exotic 
vegetation, — coupled  with  some  vague  disappointment  at 
the  absence  of  that  picturesque  humanity  that  delighted 
us  in  the  streets  of  St.  Pierre,  Martinique.  The  bright  cos- 
tumes of  the  French  colonies  are  not  visible  here :  there 
is  nothing  like  them  in  any  of  the  English  islands.  Nev- 
ertheless, this  wonderful  Trinidad  is  as  unique  ethnolog- 
ically  as  it  is  otherwise  remarkable  among  all  the  other 
Antilles.  It  has  three  distinct  Creole  populations, — Eng- 
lish, Spanish,  and  French, — besides  its  German  and  Ma- 
deiran  settlers.  There  is  also  a  special  black  or  half-breed 
element,  corresponding  to  each  Creole  race,  and  speak- 
ing the  language  of  each;  there  are  fifty  thousand  Hin- 
doo coolies,  and  a  numerous  body  of  Chinese.  Still,  this 
extraordinary  diversity  of  race  elements  does  not  make 
itself  at  once  apparent  to  the  stranger.  Your  first  im- 
pressions, as  you  pass  through  the  black  crowd  upon 
the  wharf,  is  that  of  being  among  a  population  as  nearly 
African  as  that  of  Barbadoes;  and  indeed  the  black 
element  dominates  to  such  an  extent  that  upon  the 
streets  white  faces  look  strange  by  contrast.  When  a 
white  face  does  appear,  it  is  usually  under  the  shadow 
of  an  Indian  helmet,  and  heavily  bearded,  and  austere: 
the  physiognomy  of  one  used  to  command.  Against  the 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  83 

fantastic  ethnic  background  of  all  this  colonial  life,  this 
strong,  bearded  English  visage  takes  something  of  heroic 
relief; — one  feels,  in  a  totally  novel  way,  the  dignity  of  a 
white  skin. 

...  I  hire  a  carriage  to  take  me  to  the  nearest  coolie  vil- 
lage;—a  delightful  drive.  .  .  .  Sometimes  the  smooth  white 
road  curves  round  the  slope  of  a  forest-covered  mount- 
ain ; — sometimes  overlooks  a  valley  shining  with  twenty 
different  shades  of  surface  green ; — sometimes  traverses 
marvellous  natural  arcades  formed  by  the  interweaving 
and  intercrossing  of  bamboos  fifty  feet  high.  Rising  in 
vast  clumps,  and  spreading  out  sheafwise  from  the  soil 
towards  the  sky,  the  curves  of  their  beautiful  jointed 
stems  meet  at  such  perfect  angles  above  the  way,  and 
on  either  side  of  it,  as  to  imitate  almost  exactly  the  elab- 
orate Gothic  arch-work  of  old  abbey  cloisters.  Above  the 
road,  shadowing  the  slopes  of  lofty  hills,  forests  beetle  in 
dizzy  precipices  of  verdure.  They  are  green — burning, 
flashing  green  —  covered  with  parasitic  green  creepers 
and  vines ;  they  show  enormous  forms,  or  rather  dreams 
of  form,  fetichistic  and  startling.  Banana  leaves  flicker 
and  flutter  along  the  way-side ;  palms  shoot  up  to  vast 
altitudes,  like  pillars  of  white  metal ;  and  there  is  a  per- 
petual shifting  of  foliage  color, 'from  yellow-green  to 
orange,  from  reddish-green  to  purple,  from  emerald-green 
to  black-green.  But  the  background  color,  the  dominant 
tone,  is  like  the  plumage  of  a  green  parrot. 

.  .  .  We  drive  into  the  coolie  village,  along  a  narrower 
way,  lined  with  plantain-trees,  bananas,  flamboyants,  and 
unfamiliar  shrubs  with  large  broad  leaves.  Here  and 
there  are  cocoa- palms.  Beyond  the  little  ditches  on 
either  side,  occupying  openings  in  the  natural  hedge,  are 
the  dwellings — wooden  cabins, widely  separated  from  each 
other.  The  narrow  lanes  that  enter  the  road  are  also  lined 
with  habitations,  half  hidden  by  banana-trees.  There  is 
a  prodigious  glare,  an  intense  heat.  Around,  above  the 
8 


84  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

trees  and  the  roofs,  rise  the  far  hill  shapes,  some  bright- 
ly verdant,  some  cloudy  blue,  some  gray.  The  road  and 
the  lanes  are  almost  deserted;  there  is  little  shade;  only  at 
intervals  some  slender  brown  girl  or  naked  baby  appears 
at  a  door-way.  The  carriage  halts  before  a  shed  built 
against  a  wall — a  simple  roof  of  palm  thatch  supported 
upon  jointed  posts  of  bamboo. 

It  is  a  little  coolie  temple.  A  few  weary  Indian  labor- 
ers slumber  in  its  shadow;  pretty  naked  children,  with 
silver  rings  round  their  ankles,  are  playing  there  with  a 
white  dog.  Painted  over  the  wall  surface,  in  red,  yellow, 
brown,  blue,  and  green  designs  upon  a  white  ground,  are 
extraordinary  figures  of  gods  and  goddesses.  They  have 
several  pairs  of  arms,  brandishing  mysterious  things, — 
they  seem  to  dance,  gesticulate,  threaten ;  but  they  are 
all  very  naif, — remind  one  of  the  first  efforts  of  a  child 
with  the  first  box  of  paints.  While  I  am  looking  at  these 
things,  one  coolie  after  another  wakes  up  (these  men  sleep 
lightly)  and  begins  to  observe  me  almost  as  curiously,  and 
I  fear  much  less  kindly,  than  I  have  been  observing  the 
gods.  "  Where  is  your  babagee  ?"  I  inquire.  No  one 
seems  to  comprehend  my  question ;  the  gravity  of  each 
dark  face  remains  unrelaxed.  Yet  I  would  have  liked  to 
make  an  offering  unto  Siva. 

.  .  .  Outside  the  Indian  goldsmith's  cabin,  palm  shad- 
ows are  crawling  slowly  to  and  fro  in  the  white  glare, 
like  shapes  of  tarantulas,  inside,  the  heat  is  augmented 
by  the  tiny  charcoal  furnace  which  glowrs  beside  a  ridic- 
ulous little  anvil  set  into  a  wooden  block  buried  level 
with  the  soil.  Through  a  rear  door  come  odors  of  un- 
known flowers  and  the  cool  brilliant  green  of  banana 
leaves.  ...  A  minute  of  waiting  in  the  hot  silence ; — 
then,  noiselessly  as  a  phantom,  the  nude-limbed  smith 
enters  by  a  rear  door, — squats  down,  without  a  word,  on 
his  little  mat  beside  his  little  anvil, — and  turns  towards 


COOLIES    OF   TRINIDAD. 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  85 

me,  inquiringly,  a  face  half  veiled  by  a  black  beard, — a 
turbaned  Indian  face,  sharp,  severe,  and  slightly  unpleas- 
ant in  expression.  "  Vie  beras  /"  explains  my  Creole 
driver,  pointing  to  his  client.  The  smith  opens  his  lips 
to  utter  in  the  tone  of  a  call  the  single  syllable  " Ra  /" 
then  folds  his  arms. 

Almost  immediately  a  young  Hindoo  woman  enters, 
squats  down  on  the  earthen  floor  at  the  end  of  the 
bench  which  forms  the  only  furniture  of  the  shop,  and 
turns  upon  me  a  pair  of  the  finest  black  eyes  I  have 
ever  seen, — like  the  eyes  of  a  fawn.  She  is  very  simply 
clad,  in  a  coolie  robe  leaving  arms  and  ankles  bare, 
and  clinging  about  the  figure  in  gracious  folds ;  her 
color  is  a  clear  bright  brown — new  bronze ;  her  face  a 
fine  oval,  and  charmingly  aquiline.  I  perceive  a  little 
silver  ring,  in  the  form  of  a  twisted  snake,  upon  the 
slender  second  toe  of  each  bare  foot ;  upon  each  arm 
she  has  at  least  ten  heavy  silver  rings ;  there  are  also 
large  silver  rings  about  her  ankles;  a  gold  .flower  is  fixed 
by  a  little  hook  in  one  nostril,  and  two  immense  silver 
circles,  shaped  like  new  moons,  shimmer  in  her  ears. 
The  smith  mutters  something  to  her  in  his  Indian 
tongue.  She  rises,  and  seating  herself  on  the  bench 
beside  me,  in  an  altitude  of  perfect  grace,  holds  out  one 
beautiful  brown  arm  to  me  that  I  may  choose  a  ring. 

The  arm  is  much  more  worthy  of  attention  than  the 
rings  :  -it  has  the  tint,  the  smoothness,  the  symmetry,  of 
a  fine  statuary's  work  in  metal ; — the  upper  arm,  tattooed 
with  a  bluish  circle  of  arabesques,  is  otherwise  un- 
adorned ;  all  the  bracelets  are  on  the  fore-arm.  Very 
clumsy  and  coarse  they  prove  to  be  on  closer  examina- 
tion :  it  was  the  fine  dark  skin  which  by  color  contrast 
made  them  look  so  pretty.  1  choose  the  outer  one,  a 
round  ring  with  terminations  shaped  like  viper  heads ; — 
the  smith  inserts  a  pair  of  tongs  between  these  ends, 
presses  outward  slowly  and  strongly,  and  the  ring  is  off. 


86  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

It  has  a  faint  musky  odor,  not  unpleasant,  the  perfume 
of  the  tropical  flesh  it  clung  to.  I  would  have  taken  it 
thus ;  but  the  smith  snatches  it  from  me,  heats  it  red  in 
his  little  charcoal  furnace,  hammers  it  into  a  nearly  per- 
fect circle  again,  slakes  it,  and  burnishes  it. 

Then  I  ask  for  children's  beras,  or  bracelets ;  and  the 
young  mother  brings  in  her  own  baby  girl, — a  little  dar- 
ling just  able  to  walk.  She  has  extraordinary  eyes;  — 
the  mother's  eyes  magnified  (the  father's  are  small  and 
fierce).  I  bargain  for  the  single  pair  of  thin  rings  on 
her  little  wrists; — while  the  smith  is  taking  them  off, 
the  child  keeps  her  wonderful  gaze  fixed  on  my  face. 
Then  I  observe  that  the  peculiarity  of  the  eye  is  the 
size  of  the  iris  rather  than  the  size  of  the  ball.  These 
eyes  are  not  soft  like  the  mother's,  after  all ;  they  are 
ungentle,  beautiful  as  they  are  ;  they  have  the  dark  and 
splendid  flame  of  the  eyes  of  a  great  bird — a  bird  of 
prey. 

.  .  .  She  will  grow  up,  this  little  maid,  into  a  slender, 
graceful  woman,  very  beautiful,  no  doubt ;  perhaps  a 
little  dangerous.  She  will  marry,  of  course :  probably 
she  is  betrothed  even  now,  according  to  Indian  custom, — 
pledged  to  some  brown  boy,  the  son  of  a  friend.  It 
will  not  be  so  many  years  before  the  day  of  their  noisy 
wedding :  girls  shoot  up  under  this  sun  with  as  swift  a 
growth  as  those  broad-leaved  beautiful  shapes  which  fill 
the  open  door-way  with  quivering  emerald.  And  she 
will  know  the  witchcraft  of  those  eyes,  will  feel  the 
temptation  to  use  them, — perhaps  to  smile  one  of  those 
smiles  which  have  power  over  life  and  death. 

And  then  the  old  coolie  story !  One  day,  in  the  yel- 
lowing cane- fields,  among  the  swarm  of  veiled  and  tur- 
baned  workers,  a  word  is  overheard,  a  side  glance  in- 
tercepted;— there  is  the  swirling  flash  of  a  cutlass  blade  ; 
a  shrieking  gathering  of  women  about  a  headless  corpse 


rOGT.TF.   SERVANT. 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  87 

in  the  sun  •  and  passing  cityward,  between  armed  and 
helmeted  men,  the  vision  of  an  Indian  prisoner,  blood- 
crimsoned,  walking  very  steadily,  very  erect,  with  the  so- 
lemnity of  a  judge,  the  dry  bright  gaze  of  an  idol.  .  .  . 


XXXI. 

.  .  .  WE  steam  very  slowly  into  the  harbor  of  St. 
George,  Grenada,  in  dead  silence.  No  cannon -signal 
allowed  here.  .  .  .  Some  one  suggests  that  the  violence 
of  the  echoes  in  this  harbor  renders  the  firing  of  cannon 
dangerous ;  somebody  else  says  the  town  is  in  so  ruin- 
ous a  condition  that  the  report  of  a  gun  would  shake  it 
down. 

.  .  .  There  are  heavy  damp  smells  in  the  warm  air  as  of 
mould,  or  of  wet  clay  freshly  upturned. 

This  harbor  is  a  deep  clear  basin,  surrounded  and 
shadowed  by  immense  volcanic  hills,  all  green.  The 
opening  by  which  we  entered  is  cut  off  from  sight  by  a 
promontory,  and  hill  shapes  beyond  the  promontory; — 
we  seem  to  be  in  the  innermost  ring  of  a  double  crater. 
There  is  a  continuous  shimmering  and  plashing  of  leap- 
ing fish  in  the  shadow  of  the  loftiest  height,  which  reaches 
half  across  the  water. 

As  it  climbs  up  the  base  of  the  huge  hill  at  a  pre- 
cipitous angle,  the  city  can  be  seen  from  the  steamer's 
deck  almost  as  in  a  bird's-eye  view.  A  senescent  city; 
mostly  antiquated  Spanish  architecture, — ponderous  arch- 
ways and  earthquake-proof  walls.  The  yellow  buildings 
fronting  us  beyond  the  wharf  seem  half  decayed ;  they 
are  strangely  streaked  with  green,  look  as  if  they  had 
been  long  under  water.  We  row  ashore,  land  in  a  crowd 
of  lazy-looking,  silent  blacks. 

.  .  .  What  a  quaint,  dawdling,  sleepy  place  it  is !  All 
these  narrow  streets  are  falling  into  ruin ;  everywhere 
the  same  green  stains  upon  the  walls,  as  of  slime  left 


88  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

by  a  flood  ;  everywhere  disjointed  brickwork,  crumbling 
roofs,  pungent  odors  of  mould.  Yet  this  Spanish  archi- 
tecture was  built  to  endure  ;  those  yellow,  blue,  or  green 
walls  were  constructed  with  the  solidity  of  fortress-work  ; 
the  very  stairs  are  stone ;  the  balustrades  and  the  rail- 
ings were  made  of  good  wrought  iron.  In  a  Northern 
clime  such  edifices  would  resist  the  wear  and  tear  of  five 
hundred  years.  But  here  the  powers  of  disintegration 
are  extraordinary,  and  the  very  air  would  seem  to  have 
the  devouring  force  of  an  acid.  All  surfaces  and  angles 
are  yielding  to  the  attacks  of  time,  weather,  and  micro- 
scopic organisms ;  paint  peels,  stucco  falls,  tiles  tumble, 
stones  slip  out  of  place,  and  in  every  chink  tiny  green 
things  nestle,  propagating  themselves  through  the  joint- 
ures and  dislocating  the  masonry.  There  is  an  appalling 
mould iness,  an  exaggerated  mossiness — the  mystery  and 
the  melancholy  of  a  city  deserted.  Old  warehouses  with- 
out signs,  huge  and  void,  are  opened  regularly  every  day 
for  so  many  hours ;  yet  the  business  of  the  aged  merchants 
within  seems  to  be  a  problem; — you  might  fancy  those 
gray  men  were  always  waiting  for  ships  that  sailed  away 
a  generation  ago,  and  will  never  return.  You  see  no 
customers  entering  the  stores,  but  only  a  black  mendi- 
cant from  time  to  time.  And  high  above  all  this,  over- 
looking streets  too  steep  for  any  vehicle,  slope  the  red 
walls  of  the  mouldering  fort,  patched  with  the  virides- 
cence  of  ruin. 

By  a  road  leading  up  beyond  the  city,  you  reach  the 
cemetery.  The  staggering  iron  gates  by  which  you  en- 
ter it  are  almost  rusted  from  their  hinges,  and  the  low 
wall  enclosing  it  is  nearly  all  verdant.  Within,  you  see 
a  wilderness  of  strange  weeds,  vines,  creepers,  fantastic 
shrubs  run  mad,  with  a  few  palms  mounting  above  the 
green  confusion ; — only  here  and  there  a  gleam  of  slabs 
with  inscriptions  half  erased.  Such  as  you  can  read  are 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  89 

epitaphs  of  seamen,  dating  back  to  the  years  1800,  1802, 
1812.  Over  these  lizards  are  running;  undulations  in 
the  weeds  warn  you  to  beware  of  snakes  ;  toads  leap 
away  as  you  proceed  ;  and  you  observe  everywhere  crick- 
ets perched  —  grass  -  colored  creatures  with  two  ruby 


COOLIE   MERCHANT. 


specks  for  eyes.  They  make  a  sound  shrill  as  the  scream 
of  machinery  bevelling  marble.  At  the  farther  end  of 
the  cemetery  is  a  heavy  ruin  that  would  seem  to  have 
once  been  part  of  a  church  :  it  is  so  covered  with  creep- 


90  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

ing  weeds  now  that  you  only  distinguish  the  masonry  on 
close  approach,  and  high  trees  are  growing  within  it. 

There  is  something,  in  tropical  ruin  peculiarly  and  ter- 
ribly impressive :  this  luxuriant,  evergreen,  ever-splen- 
did Nature  consumes  the  results  of  human  endeavor  so 
swiftly,  buries  memories  so  profoundly,  distorts  the  la- 
bors of  generations  so  grotesquely,  that  one  feels  here, 
as  nowhere  else,  how  ephemeral  man  is,  how  intense  and 
how  tireless  the  effort  necessary  to  preserve  his  frail 
creations  even  a  little  while  from  the  vast  unconscious 
forces  antagonistic  to  all  stability,  to  all  factitious  equi- 
librium. 

...  A  gloomy  road  winds  high  around  one  cliff  over- 
looking the  hollow  of  the  bay.  Following  it,  you  pass 
under  extraordinarily  dark  shadows  of  foliage,  and  over 
a  blackish  soil  strewn  with  pretty  bright  green  fruit  that 
has  fallen  from  above.  Do  not  touch  them  even  with 
the  tip  of  your  finger !  Those  are  manchineel  apples ;  with 
their  milky  juice  the  old  Caribs  were  wont  to  poison  the 
barbs  of  their  parrot-feathered  arrows.  Over  the  mould, 
swarming  among  the  venomous  fruit,  innumerable  crabs 
make  a  sound  almost  like  the  murmuring  of  water.  Some 
are  very  large,  with  prodigious  stalked  eyes,  and  claws 
white  as  ivory,  and  a  red  cuirass ;  others,  very  small  and 
very  swift  in  their  movements,  are  raspberry  -  colored  ; 
others,  again,  are  apple -green,  with  queer  mottlings  of 
black  and  white.  There  is  an  unpleasant  odor  of  decay 
in  the  air — vegetable  decay. 

Emerging  from  the  shadow  of  the  manchineel-trees, 
you  may  follow  the  road  up,  up,  up,  under  beetling  cliffs 
of  plutonian  rock  that  seem  about  to  topple  down  upon 
the  path-way.  The  rock  is  naked  and  black  near  the 
road;  higher,  it  is  veiled  by  a  heavy  green  drapery  of 
lianas,  curling  creepers,  unfamiliar  vines.  All  around 
you  are  sounds  of  crawling,  dull  echoes  of  dropping ;  the 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  91 

thick  growths  far  up  waver  in  the  breathless  air  as  if 
something  were  moving  sinuously  through  them.  And  al- 
ways the  odor  of  humid  decomposition.  Farther  on,  the 
road  looks  wilder,  sloping  between  black  rocks,  through 
strange  vaultings  of  foliage  and  night -black  shadows. 
Its  lonesomeness  oppresses  ;  one  returns  without  regret, 
by  rusting  gate-ways  and  tottering  walls,  back  to  the  old 
West  Indian  city  rotting  in  the  sun. 

.  .  .  Yet  Grenada,  despite  the  dilapidation  of  her  capi- 
tal and  the  seeming  desolation  of  its  environs,  is  not  the 
least  prosperous  of  the  Antilles.  Other  islands  have 
been  less  fortunate  :  the  era  of  depression  has  almost 
passed  for  Grenada ;  through  the  rapid  development  -of 
her  secondary  cultures  —  coffee  and  cocoa — she  hopes 
with  good  reason  to  repair  some  of  the  vast  losses  in- 
volved by  the  decay  of  the  sugar  industry. 

Still,  in  this  silence  of  mouldering  streets,  this  melan- 
choly of  abandoned  dwellings,  this  invasion  of  vegeta- 
tion, there  is  a  suggestion  of  what  any  West  Indian  port 
might  become  when  the  resources  of  the  island  had  been 
exhausted,  and  its  commerce  ruined.  After  all  persons 
of  means  and  energy  enough  to  seek  other  fields  of  in- 
dustry and  enterprise  had  taken  their  departure,  and  the 
plantations  had  been  abandoned,  and  the  warehouses 
closed  up  forever,  and  the  voiceless  wharves  left  to  rot 
down  into  the  green  water,  Nature  would  soon  so  veil 
the  place  as  to  obliterate  every  outward  visible  sign 
of  the  past.  In  scarcely  more  than  a  generation  from 
the  time  that  the  last  merchant  steamer  had  taken  her 
departure  some  traveller  might  look  for  the  once  pop- 
ulous and  busy  mart  in  vain :  vegetation  would  have 
devoured  it. 

...  In  the  mixed  English  and  Creole  speech  of  the 
black  population  one  can  discern  evidence  of  a  linguistic 
transition.  The  original  French  patois  is  being  rapidly 
forgotten  or  transformed  irrecognizably. 


92  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

Now,  in  almost  every  island  the  negro  idiom  is  differ- 
ent. So  often  have  some  of  the  Antilles  changed  own- 
ers, moreover,  that  in  them  the  negro  has  never  been 
able  to  form  a  true  patois.  He  had  scarcely  acquired 
some  idea  of  the  language  of  his  first  masters,  when  oth- 
er rulers  and  another  tongue  were  thrust  upon  him, — and 
this  may  have  occurred  three  or  four  times  !  The  result 
is  a  totally  incoherent  agglomeration  of  speech-forms — a 
baragouin  fantastic  and  unintelligible  beyond  the  power 
of  any  one  to  imagine  who  has  not  heard  it.  ... 

XXXII. 

...  A  BEAUTIFUL  fantastic  shape  floats  to  us  through 
the  morning  light  ;  first  cloudy  gold  like  the  horizon, 
then  pearly  gray,  then  varying  blue,  with  growing  green 
lights ; —  Saint  Lucia.  Most  strangely  formed  of  all 
this  volcanic  family; — everywhere  mountainings  sharp 
as  broken  crystals.  Far  off  the  Pitons — twin  peaks  of 
the  high  coast— show  softer  contours,  like  two  black 
breasts  pointing  against  the  sky.  .  .  . 

...  As  we  enter  the  harbor  of  Castries,  the  lines  of 
the  land  seem  no  less  exquisitely  odd,  in  spite  of  their 
rich  verdure,  than  when  viewed  afar  off; — they  have  a 
particular  pitch  of  angle.  .  .  .  Other  of  these  islands 
show  more  or  less  family  resemblance;  —  you  might 
readily  mistake  one  silhouette  for  another  as  seen  at  a 
distance,  even  after  several  West  Indian  journeys.  But 
Saint  Lucia  at  once  impresses  you  by  its  eccentricity. 

Castries,  drowsing  under  palm  leaves  at  the  edge  of 
its  curving  harbor, — perhaps  an  ancient  crater, — seems 
more  of  a  village  than  a  town :  streets  of  low  cottages 
and  little  tropic  gardens.  It  has  a  handsome  half  breed 
population  :  the  old  French  colonial  manners  have  been 
less  changed  here  by  English  influence  than  in  Saint 
Kitt's  and  elsewhere  ; — the  Creole  patois  is  still  spoken, 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  93 

though  the  costumes  have  changed.  ...  A  more  beauti- 
ful situation  could  scarcely  be  imagined, — even  in  this 
tropic  world.  In  the  massing  of  green  heights  about 
the  little  town  are  gaps  showing  groves  of  palm  be- 
yond; but  the  peak  summits  catch  the  clouds.  Behind 
us  the  harbor  mouth  seems  spanned  by  steel-blue  bars  : 
these  are  lines  of  currents.  Away,  on  either  hand,  vol- 
canic hills  are  billowing  to  vapory  distance  ;  and  in 
their  nearer  hollows  are  beautiful  deepenings  of  color: 
ponded  shades  of  diaphanous  blue  or  purplish  tone.  .  .  . 
I  first  remarked  this  extraordinary  coloring  of  shadows 
in  Martinique,  where  it  exists  to  a  degree  that  tempts 
one  to  believe  the  island  has  a  special  atmosphere  of  its 
own.  ...  A  friend  tells  me  the  phenomenon  is  probably 
due  to  inorganic  substances  floating  in  the  air, — each 
substance  in  diffusion  having  its  own  index  of  refrac- 
tion. Substances  so  held  in  suspension  by  vapors  would 
vary  according  to  the  nature  of  soil  in  different  islands, 
and  might  thus  produce  special  local  effects  of  atmos- 
pheric tinting. 

.  .  .  We  remain  but  half  an  hour  at  Castries ;  then 
steam  along  the  coast  to  take  in  freight  at  another  port. 
Always  the  same  delicious  color-effects  as  we  proceed, 
with  new  and  surprising  visions  of  hills.  The  near 
slopes  descending  to  the  sea  are  a  radiant  green,  with 
streaks  and  specklings  of  darker  verdure; — the  farther- 
rising  hills  faint  blue,  with  green  saliencies  catching  the 
sun ; — and  beyond  these  are  upheavals  of  luminous  gray 
— pearl-gray — sharpened  in  the  silver  glow  of  the  hori- 
zon. .  .  .  The  general  impression  of  the  whole  landscape 
is  one  of  motion  suddenly  petrified, — of  an  earthquake 
surging  and  tossing  suddenly  arrested  and  fixed :  a  rag- 
ing of  cones  and  peaks  and  monstrous  truncated  shapes. 
.  .  .  We  approach  the  Pitons. 

Seen  afar  off,  they  first  appeared  twin  mammiform 
peaks, — naked  and  dark  against  the  sky ;  but  now  they 
9 


94  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

begin  to  brighten  a  little  and  show  color, —  also  to 
change  form.  They  take  a  lilaceous  hue,  broken  by 
gray  and  green  lights;  and  as  we  draw  yet  nearer  they 
prove  dissimilar  both  in  shape  and  tint.  .  .  .  Now  they 
separate  before  us,  throwing  long  pyramidal  shadows 
across  the  steamer's  path.  Then,  as  they  open  to  our 
coming,  between  them  a  sea  bay  is  revealed — a  very 
lovely  curving  bay,  bounded  by  hollow  cliffs  of  fiery 
green.  At  either  side  of  the  gap  the  Pitons  rise  like 
monster  pylones.  And  a  charming  little  settlement,  a 
beautiful  sugar -plantation,  is  nestling  there  between 
them,  on  the  very  edge  of  the  bay. 

Out  of  a  bright  sea  of  verdure,  speckled  with  oases 
of  darker  foliage,  these  Pitons  from  the  land  side  tower 
in  sombre  vegetation.  Very  high  up,  on  the  nearer 
one,  amid  the  wooded  slopes,  you  can  see  houses 
perched ;  and  there  are  bright  breaks  in  the  color  there 
— tiny  mountain  pastures  that  look  like  patches  of  green 
silk  velvet 

.  .  .  We  pass  the  Pitons,  and  enter  another  little  cra- 
terine  harbor,  to  cast  anchor  before  the  village  of  Choi- 
seul.  It  lies  on  a  ledge  above  the  beach  and  under  high 
hills  :  we  land  through  a  surf,  running  the  boat  high  up 
on  soft  yellowish  sand.  A  delicious  saline  scent  of  sea- 
weed. 

It  is  disappointing,  the  village  :  it  is  merely  one  cross 
of  brief  streets,  lined  with  blackening  wooden  dwellings ; 
there  are  no  buildings  worth  looking  at,  except  the  queer 
old  French  church,  steep-roofed  and  bristling  with  points 
that  look  like  extinguishers.  Over  broad  reaches  of  lava 
rock  a  shallow  river  flows  by  the  village  to  the  sea,  gur- 
gling under  shadows  of  tamarind  foliage.  It  passes  beside 
the  market-place — a  market-place  without  stalls,  benches, 
sheds,  or  pavements  :  meats,  fruits,  and  vegetables  are 
simply  fastened  to  the  trees.  Women  are  washing  and 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  95 

naked  children  bathing  in  the  stream  ;  they  are  bronze- 
skinned,  a  fine  dark  color  with  a  faint  tint  of  red  in  it. 
.  .  .  There  is  little  else  to  look  at :  steep  wooded  hills 
cut  off  the  view  towards  the  interior. 

But  over  the  verge  of  the  sea  there  is  something  strange 
growing  visible,  looming  up  like  a  beautiful  yellow  cloud. 
It  is  an  island,  so  lofty,  so  luminous,  so  phantom-like, 
that  it  seems  a  vision  of  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities. 
It  is  only  the  form  of  St.  Vincent,  bathed  in  vapory  gold 
by  the  sun. 

.  .  .  Evening  at  La  Soufriere  :  still  another  semicircular 
bay  in  a  hollow  of  green  hills.  Glens  hold  bluish  shad- 
ows. The  color  of  the  heights  is  very  tender ;  but  there 
are  long  streaks  and  patches  of  dark  green,  marking  wa- 
tercourses and  very  abrupt  surfaces.  From  the  western 
side  immense  shadows  are  pitched  brokenly  across  the 
valley  and  over  half  the  roofs  of  the  palmy  town.  There 
is  a  little  river  flowing  down  to  the  bay  on  the  left ;  and 
west  of  it  a  walled  cemetery  is  visible,  out  of  which  one 
monumental  palm  rises  to  a  sublime  height :  its  crest 
still  bathes  in  the  sun,  above  the  invading  shadow. 
Night  approaches;  the  shade  of  the  hills  inundates  all 
the  landscape,  rises  even  over  the  palm -crest.  Then, 
black-towering  into  the  golden  glow  of  sunset,  the  land 
loses  all  its  color,  all  its  charm  ;  forms  of  frondage,  vari- 
ations of  tint,  become  invisible.  Saint  Lucia  is  only  a 
monstrous  silhouette  ;  all  its  billowing  hills,  its  volcanic 
bays,  its  amphitheatrical  valleys,  turn  black  as  ebony. 

And  you  behold  before  you  a  geological  dream,  a  vi- 
sion of  the  primeval  sea  :  the  apparition  of  the  land  as 
first  brought  forth,  all  peak-tossed  and  fissured  and  na- 
ked and  grim,  in  the  tremendous  birth  of  an  archipelago. 


96  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

XXXIII. 

HOMEWARD  bound. 

Again  the  enormous  poem  of  azure  and  emerald  un- 
rolls before  us,  but  in  order  inverse ;  again  is  the  island- 
Litany  of  the  Saints  repeated  for  us,  but  now  backward. 
All  the  bright  familiar  harbors  once  more  open  to  re- 
ceive us ; — each  lovely  Shape  floats  to  us  again,  first 
golden  yellow,  then  vapory  gray,  then  ghostly  blue,  but 
always  sharply  radiant  at  last,  symmetrically  exquisite, 
as  if  chiselled  out  of  amethyst  and  emerald  and  sapphire. 
We  review  the  same  wondrous  wrinkling  of  volcanic 
hills,  the  cities  that  sit  in  extinct  craters,  the  woods  that 
tower  to  heaven,  the  peaks  perpetually  wearing  that  lumi- 
nous cloud  which  seems  the  breathing  of  each  island- 
life, — its  vital  manifestation.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Only  now  do  the  long  succession  of  exotic  and 
unfamiliar  impressions  received  begin  to  group  and 
blend,  to  form  homogeneous  results, — general  ideas  or 
convictions.  Strongest  among  these  is  the  belief  that 
the  white  race  is  disappearing  from  these  islands,  ac- 
quired and  held  at  so  vast  a  cost  of  blood  and  treasure. 
Reasons  almost  beyond  enumeration  have  been  advanced 
—  economical,  climatic,  ethnical,  political — all  of  which 
contain  truth,  yet  no  single  one  of  which  can  wholly 
explain  the  fact.  Already  the  white  West  Indian  popu- 
lations are  diminishing  at  a  rate  that  almost  staggers 
credibility.  In  the  island  paradise  of  Martinique  in  1848 
there  were  12,000  whites  ;  now,  against  more  than  160,- 
ooo  blacks  and  half-breeds,  there  are  perhaps  5000  whites 
left  to  maintain  the  ethnic  struggle,  and  the  number 
of  these  latter  is  annually  growing  less.  Many  of  the 
British  islands  have  been  almost  deserted  by  their  form- 
er cultivators  :  St.  Vincent  is  becoming  desolate  :  Toba- 
go is  a  ruin ;  St.  Martin  lies  half  abandoned ;  St.  Chris- 
topher is  crumbling  ;  Grenada  has  lost  more  than  half 


A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics.  97 

her  whites ;  St.  Thomas,  once  the  most  prosperous,  the 
most  active,  the  •  most  cosmopolitan  of  West  Indian 
ports,  is  in  full  decadence.  And  while  the  white  ele- 
ment is  disappearing,  the  dark  races  are  multiplying  as 
never  before ; — the  increase  of  the  negro  and  half-breed 
populations  has  been  everywhere  one  of  the  startling  re- 
sults of  emancipation.  The  general  belief  among  the  cre- 
ole  whites  of  the  Lesser  Antilles  would  seem  to  confirm 
the  old  prediction  that  the  slave  races  of  the  past  must  be- 
come the  masters  of  the  future.  Here  and  there  the 
struggle  may  be  greatly  prolonged,  but  everywhere  the 
ultimate  result  must  be  the  same,  unless  the  present  con- 
ditions of  commerce  and  production  become  marvellously 
changed.  The  exterminated  Indian  peoples  of  the  Antilles 
have  already  been  replaced  by  populations  equally  fitted 
to  cope  with  the  forces  of  the  nature  about  them, — that 
splendid  and  terrible  Nature  of  the  tropics  which  con- 
sumes the  energies  of  the  races  of  the  North,  which  de- 
vours all  that  has  been  accomplished  by  their  heroism 
or  their  crimes, — effacing  their  cities,  rejecting  their  civ- 
ilization. To  those  peoples  physiologically  in  harmony 
with  this  Nature  belong  all  the  chances  of  victory  in  the 
contest — already  begun — for  racial  supremacy. 

But  with  the  disappearance  of  the  white  populations 
the  ethnical  problem  would  be  still  unsettled.  Between 
the  black  and  mixed  peoples  prevail  hatreds  more  endur- 
ing and  more  intense  than  any  race  prejudices  between 
whites  and  freedmen  in  the  past;— a  new  struggle  for 
supremacy  could  not  fail  to  begin,  with  the  perpetual 
augmentation  of  numbers,  the  ever-increasing  competi- 
tion for  existence.  And  the  true  black  element,  more 
numerically  powerful,  more  fertile,  more  cunning,  better 
adapted  to  pyrogenic  climate  and  tropical  environment, 
would  surely  win.  All  these  mixed  races,  all  these  beau- 
tiful fruit-colored  populations,  seem  doomed  to  extinc- 
tion :  the  future  tendency  must  be  to  universal  black- 


98  A  Midsummer  Trip  to  the  Tropics. 

ness,  if  existing  conditions  continue  —  perhaps  to  uni- 
versal savagery.  Everywhere  the  sins  of  the  past  have 
borne  the  same  fruit,  have  furnished  the  colonies  with 
social  enigmas  that  mock  the  wisdom  of  legislators, — a 
dragon-crop  of  problems  that  no  modern  political  sci- 
ence has  yet  proved  competent  to  deal  with.  Can  it 
even  be  hoped  that  future  sociologists  will  be  able  to 
answer  them,  after  Nature — who  never  forgives — shall 
have  exacted  the  utmost  possible  retribution  tor  all  the 
crimes  and  follies  of  three  hundred  years  ? 


Martinique  Sketches, 


LES    PORTEUSES. 


WHEN  you  find  yourself  for  the  first  time,  upon  some 
unshadowed  day,  in  the  delightful  West  Indian  city  of 
St.  Pierre, — supposing  that  you  own  the  sense  of  poetry, 
the  recollections  of  a  student, — there  is  apt  to  steal 
upon  your  fancy  an  impression  of  having  seen  it  all  be- 
fore, ever  so  long  ago, — you  cannot  tell  where.  The 
sensation  of  some  happy  dream  you  cannot  wholly  recall 
might  be  compared  to  this  feeling.  In  the  simplicity 
and  solidity  of  the  quaint  architecture, — in  the  eccen- 
tricity of  bright  narrow  streets,  all  aglow  with  warm  col- 
oring,—  in  the  tints  of  roof  and  wall,  antiquated  by 
streakings  and  patchings  of  mould  greens  and  grays, — in 
the  startling  absence  of  window-sashes,  glass,  gas  lamps, 
and  chimneys, — in  the  blossom-tenderness  of  the  blue 
heaven,  the  splendor  of  tropic  light,  and  the  warmth 
of  the  tropic  wind, — you  find  less  the  impression  of  a 
scene  of  to-day  than  the  sensation  of  something  that 
was  and  is  not.  Slowly  this  feeling  strengthens  with 
your  pleasure  in  the  colorific  radiance  of  costume, — the 
semi-nudity  of  passing  figures, — the  puissant  shapeliness 
of  torsos  ruddily  swart  like  statue  metal, — the  rounded 
outline  of  limbs  yellow  as  tropic  fruit, — the  grace  of  at- 
titudes,— the  unconscious  harmony  of  groupings, — the 
gathering  and  folding  and  falling  of  light  robes  that  os- 
cillate with  swaying  of  free  hips, — the  sculptural  symme- 


IO2  Martinique  Sketches. 

try  of  unshod  feet.  You  look  up  and  down  the  lemon - 
tinted  streets, — down  to  the  dazzling  azure  brightness  of 
meeting  sky  and  sea;  up  to  the  perpetual  verdure  of 
mountain  woods — wondering  at  the  mellowness  of  tones, 
the  sharpness  of  lines  in  the  light,  the  diaphaneity  of 
colored  shadows;  always  asking  memory:  "When?  .  .  . 
where  did  I  see  all  this  .  .  .  long  ago  ?".  .  . 

Then,  perhaps,  your  gaze  is  suddenly  riveted  by  the 
vast  and  solemn  beauty  of  the  verdant  violet -shaded 
mass  of  the  dead  Volcano, —  high-towering  above  the 
town,  visible  from  all  its  ways,  and  umbraged,  maybe, 
with  thinnest  curlings  of  cloud, — like  spectres  of  its  an- 
cient smoking  to  heaven.  And  all  at  once  the  secret  o.f 
your  dream  is  revealed,  with  the  rising  of  many  a  lumi^ 
nous  memory, — dreams  of  the  Idyllists,  flowers  of  old 
Sicilian  song,  fancies  limned  upon  Pompeiian  walls. 
For  a  moment  the  illusion  is  delicious  :  you  comprehend 
as  never  before  the  charm  of  a  vanished  world, — the 
antique  life,  the  story  of  terra-cottas  and  graven  stones 
and  gracious  things  exhumed  :  even  the  sun  is  not  of 
to-day,  but  of  twenty  centuries  gone ; — thus,  and  under 
such  a  light,  walked  the  women  of  the  elder  world.  You 
know  the  fancy  absurd ; — that  the  power  of  the  orb  has 
visibly  abated  nothing  in  all  the  eras  of  man, — that  mill- 
ions are  the  ages  of  his  almighty  glory ;  but  for  one  in- 
stant of  reverie  he  seemeth  larger, — even  that  sun  im- 
possible who  coloreth  the  words,  colpreth  the  works  of 
artist-lovers  of  the  past,  with  the  gold  light  of  dreams. 

Too  soon  the  hallucination  is  broken  by  modern 
sounds,  dissipated  by  modern  sights, — rough  trolling  of 
sailors  descending  to  their  boats, — the  heavy  boom  of  a 
packet's  signal-gun, — the  passing  of  an  American  buggy. 
Instantly  you  become  aware  that  the  melodious  tongue 
spoken  by  the  passing  throng  is  neither  Hellenic  nor 
Roman :  only  the  beautiful  childish  speech  of  French 
slaves. 


Les  For tenses.  103 


II. 

BUT  what  slaves  were  the  fathers  of  this  free  genera- 
tion ?  Your  anthropologists,  your  ethnologists,  seem  at 
fault  here :  the  African  traits  have  become  transform- 
ed ;  the  African  characteristics  have  been  so  modified 
within  little  more  than  two  hundred  years  —  by  inter- 
blending  of  blood,  by  habit,  by  soil  and  sun  and  all 
those  natural  powers  which  shape  the  mould  of  races,— 
that  you  may  look  in  vain  for  verification  of  ethnological 
assertions.  ...  No  :  the  heel  does  not  protrude ; — the 
foot  is  not  flat,  but  finely  arched ;— the  extremities  are 
not  large ; — all  the  limbs  taper,  all  the  muscles  are  de- 
veloped ;  and  prognathism  has  become  so  rare  that 
months  of  research  may  not  yield  a  single  striking  case 
of  it.  ...  No :  this  is  a  special  race,  peculiar  to  the  isl- 
and as  are  the  shapes  of  its  peaks, — a  mountain  race; 
and  mountain  races  are  comely.  .  .  .  Compare  it  with 
the  population  of  black  Barbadoes,  where  the  apish 
grossness  of  African  coast  types  has  been  perpetuated 
unchanged; — and  the  contrast  may  well  astonish !  .  .  . 


III. 

THE  erect  carriage  and  steady  swift  walk  of  the  wom- 
en who  bear  burdens  is  especially  likely  to  impress  the 
artistic  observer:  it  is  the  sight  of  such  passers-by  which 
gives,  above  all,  the  antique  tone  and  color  to  his  first 
sensations  ; — and  the  larger  part  of  the  female  popula- 
tion of  mixed  race  are  practised  carriers.  Nearly  all 
the  transportation  of  light  merchandise,  as  well  as  of 
meats,  fruits,  vegetables,  and  food  stuffs, — to  and  from 
the  interior, —  is  effected  upon  human  heads.  At  some 
of  the  ports  the  regular  local  packets  are  loaded  and 
unloaded  by  women  and  girls, — -able  to  carry  any  trunk 
or  box  to  its  destination.  At  Fort-de-France  the  grea' 


IO4  Martinique  Sketches. 

steamers  of  the  Compagnie  Generale  Transatlantique, 
are  entirely  coaled  by  women,  who  carry  the  coal  on  their 
heads,  singing  as  they  come  and  go  in  processions  of 
hundreds  ;  and  the  work  is  done  with  incredible  rapidity. 
Now,  the  Creole  porteuse,  or  female  carrier,  is  certainly 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  physical  types  in  the  world; 
and  whatever  artistic  enthusiasm  her  graceful  port,  lithe 
walk,  or  half-savage  beauty  may  inspire  you  with,  you 
can  form  no  idea,  if  a  total  stranger,  what  a  really  won- 
derful being  she  is.  ...  Let  me  tell  you  something  about 
that  highest  type  of  professional  female  carrier,  which 
is  to  the  charbonniere,  or  coaling-girl,  what  the  thorough- 
bred racer  is  to  the  draught-horse, — the  type  of  porteuse 
selected  for  swiftness  and  endurance  to  distribute  goods 
in  the  interior  parishes,  or  to  sell  on  commission  at  long 
distances.  To  the  same  class  naturally  belong  those 
country  carriers  able  to  act  as  porteuses  of  plantation 
produce,  fruits,  or  vegetables, — between  the  nearer  ports 
and  their  own  interior  parishes.  .  .  .  Those  who  believe 
that  great  physical  endurance  and  physical  energy  can- 
not exist  in  the  tropics  do  not  know  the  Creole  carrier- 
girl. 

IV. 

AT  a  very  early  age — perhaps  at  five  years — she  learns 
to  carry  small  articles  upon  her  head, — a  bowl  of  rice,— 
a  dobanne,  or  red  earthen  decanter,  full  of  water, — even 
an  orange  on  a  plate ;  and  before  long  she  is  able  to 
balance  these  perfectly  without  using  her  hands  to  steady 
them.  (I  have  often  seen  children  actually  run  with 
cans  of  water  upon  their  heads,  and  never  spill  a  drop.) 
At  nine  or  ten  she  is  able  to  carry  thus  a  tolerably  heavy 
basket,  or  a  trait  (a  wooden  tray  with  deep  outward  slop- 
ing sides)  containing  a  weight  of  from  twenty  to  thirty 
pounds ;  and  is  able  to  accompany  her  mother,  sister, 
or  cousin  on  long  peddling  journeys, — walking  barefoot 


Les  Porteuses.  105 

twelve  and  fifteen  miles  a  day.  At  sixteen  or  seventeen 
she  is  a  tall  robust  girl,  —  lithe,  vigorous,  tough,  —  all 
tendon  and  hard  flesh ; — she  carries  a  tray  or  a  basket 
of  the  largest  size,  and  a  burden  of  one  hundred  and 
twenty  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  weight ; — she 
can  now  earn  about  thirty  francs  (about  six  dollars)  a 
month,  by  walking  fifty  miles  a  day,  as  an  itinerant  seller. 

Among  her  class  there  are  figures  to  make  you  dream 
of  Atalanta ; — and  all,  whether  ugly  or  attractive  as  to 
feature,  are  finely  shapen  as  to  body  and  limb.  Brought 
into  existence  by  extraordinary  necessities  of  environ- 
ment, the  type  is  a  peculiarly  local  one, — a  type  of  hu- 
man thorough-bred  representing  the  true  secret  of  grace  : 
economy  of  force.  There  are  no  corpulent  porteuses  for 
the  long  interior  routes  ;  all  are  built  lightly  and  firmly  as 
racers.  There  are  no  old  porteuses  ; — to  do  the  work 
even  at  forty  signifies  a  constitution  of  astounding  solid- 
ity. After  the  full  force  of  youth  and  health  is  spent, 
the  poor  carrier  must  seek  lighter  labor  ; — she  can  no 
longer  compete  with  the  girls.  For  in  this  calling  the 
young  body  is  taxed  to  its  utmost  capacity  of  strength, 
endurance,  and  rapid  motion. 

As  a  general  rule,  the  weight  is  such  that  no  well- 
freighted  porteuse  can,  unassisted,  either  "  load  "  or  "  un- 
load "  (chage  or  dechage,  in  Creole  phrase) ;  the  effort  to  do 
so  would  burst  a  blood-vessel,  wrench  a  nerve,  rupture 
a  muscle.  She  cannot  even  sit  down  under  her  burden 
without  risk  of  breaking  her  neck :  absolute  perfection 
of  the  balance  is  necessary  for  self-preservation.  A  case 
came  under  my  own  observation  of  a  woman  rupturing  a 
muscle  in  her  arm  through  careless  haste  in  the  mere 
act  of  aiding  another  to  unload. 

And  no  one  not  a  brute  will  ever  refuse  to  aid  a  wom- 
an to  lift  or  to  relieve  herself  of  her  burden ; — you  may 
see  the  wealthiest  merchant,  the  proudest  planter,  gladly 
do  it; — the  meanness  of  refusing,  or  of  making  any  con- 


io6 


Martinique  Sketches. 


ditions  for  the  performance  of  this  little  kindness  has 
only  been  imagined  in  those  strange  Stories  of  Devils 
wherewith  the  oral  and  uncollected  literature  of  the  cre- 
ole  abounds.'* 

V. 

PREPARING  for  her  journey,  the  young  machanne  (mar- 
chande)  puts  on  the  poorest  and  briefest  chemise  in  her 
possession,  and  the  most  worn  of  her  light  calico  robes. 
These  are  all  she  wears.  The  robe  is  drawn  upward  and 
forward,  so  as  to  reach  a  little  below  the  knee,  and  is  con- 
fined thus  by  a  waist-string,  or  a  long  kerchief  bound 
tightly  round  the  loins.  Instead  of  a  Madras  or  painted 
turban-kerchief,  she  binds  a  plain  mouchoir  neatly  and 


*  Extract  from  the  ''''Story  of  Marie"  as  written  from  dictation: 


.  .  .  Manman-a  te  ni  yon  gouos 
ja  a  caie-li.  Ja-la  te  touop  lou'de 
pou  Marie.  Ce  te  li  menm  man- 
man  la  qui  te  kalle  pouend  dileau. 
Yon  jou  y  pouend  ja-la  pou  y  te 
alle  pouend  dileau.  Lhe  man- 
man-a  rive  bo  la  fontaine,  y  pa 
trouve  pesonne  pou  chage  y.  Y 
rete ;  y  ka  crie, "  Toutt  bon  Chri- 
tien,  vini  chage  moin  !" 

.  .  .  Lhe  manman  rete  y  oue  pa 
te  ni  piess  bon  Chritien  pou  chage 
y.  Y  rete;  y  crie:  "  Pouloss,  si 
pa  ni  bon  Chritien,  ni  mauvais 
Chritien  !  toutt  mauvais  Chritien 
vini  chage  moin  !" 


Lhe  y  fini  di  9a,  y  oue  yon  diabe 
qui  ka  vini,  ka  di  conm  £a, "  Pou 
moin  chage  ou,  £a  ou  ke  baill 
moin?"  Manman -la  di, — y  re- 
ponne,"-Moin  pa  ni  arien!"  Di- 
abe-la  reponne  y, "  Y  fan  ba  moin 
Marie  pou  moin  pe  chage  ou." 


.  .  .  This  mamma  had  a  great 
jar  in  her  house.  The  jar  was  too 
heavy  for  Marie.  It  was  this 
mamma  herself  who  used  to  go 
for  water.  One  day  she  took  that 
jar  to  go  for  water.  When  this 
mamma  had  got  to  the  fountain, 
she  could  not  find  any  one  to  load 
her.  She  stood  there,  crying  out, 
"Any  good  Christian,  come  load 
me!" 

...  As  the  mamma  stood  there 
she  saw  there  was  not  a  single 
good  Christian  to  help  her  load. 
She  stood  there,  and  cried  out: 
"  Well,  then,  if  there  are  no 
good  Christians,  there  are  bad 
Christians.  Any  bad  Christian, 
come  and  load  me!" 

The  moment  she  said  that,  she 
saw  a,  devil  coming,  who  said  to 
her,  "  If  I  load  you,  what  will 
you  give  me  ?"  This  mamma  an- 
swered, and  said,  "  I  have  noth- 


ing 


The  devil  answered  her, 


"  Must  give  me  Marie  if  you  want 
me  to  load  you." 


TI    MARIE. 
(On  the  Route  from  St  Pierre  to  Basse-Pointe.) 


Les  Por tenses.  107 

closely  about  her  head ;  and  if  her  hair  be  long,  it  is 
combed  back  and  gathered  into  a  loop  behind.  Then, 
with  a  second  mouchoir  of  coarser  quality  she  makes  a 
pad,  or,  as  she  calls  it,  tbche,  by  winding  the  kerchief 
round  her  fingers  as  you  would  coil  up  a  piece  of  string ; — 
and  the  soft  mass,  flattened  with  a  patting  of  the  hand, 
is  placed  upon  her  head,  over  the  coiffure.  On  this  the 
great  loaded  trait  is  poised. 

She  wears  no  shoes  !  To  wear  shoes  and  do  her  work 
swiftly  and  well  in  such  a  land  of  mountains  would  be 
impossible.  She  must  climb  thousands  and  descend 
thousands  of  feet  every  day, — march  up  and  down  slopes 
so  steep  that  the  horses  of  the  country  all  break  down 
after  a  few  years  of  similar  journeying.  The  girl  in- 
variably outlasts  the  horse, — though  carrying  an  equal 
weight.  Shoes,  unless  extraordinarily  well  made,  would 
shift  place  a  little  with  every  change  from  ascent  to  de- 
scent, or  the  reverse,  during  the  march, — would  yield  and 
loosen  with  the  ever-varying  strain, —  would  compress 
the  toes, —  produce  corns,  bunions,  raw  places  by  rub- 
bing, and  soon  cripple  the  porteuse.  Remember,  she 
has  to  walk  perhaps  fifty  miles  between  dawn  and  dark, 
under  a  sun  to  which  a  single  hour's  exposure,  without 
the  protection  of  an  umbrella,  is  perilous  to  any  Euro- 
pean or  American — the  terrible  sun  of  the  tropics  !  San- 
dals are  the  only  conceivable  foot-gear  suited  to  such  a 
calling  as  hers  :  but  she  needs  no  sandals  :  the  soles  of 
her  feet  are  toughened  so  as  to  feel  no  asperities,  and 
present  to  sharp  pebbles  a  surface  at  once  yielding  and 
resisting,  like  a  cushion  of  solid  caoutchouc. 

Besides  her  load,  she  carries  only  a  canvas  purse  tied 
to  her  girdle  on  the  right  side,  and  on  the  left  a  very 
small  bottle  of  rum,  or  white  tafia, — usually  the  latter, 
because  it  is  so  cheap.  .  .  .  For  she  may  not  always  find 
the  Gouyave  Water  to  drink, — the  cold  clear  pure  stream 
conveyed  to  the  fountains  of  St.  Pierre  from  the  highest 


Io8  Martinique  Sketches. 

mountains  by  a  beautiful  and  marvellous  plan  of  hydrau- 
lic engineering :  she  will  have  to  drink  betimes  the  com- 
mon spring -water  of  the  bamboo -fountains  on  the  re- 
moter high-roads ;  and  this  may  cause  dysentery  if  swal- 
lowed without  a  spoonful  of  spirits.  Therefore  she  never 
travels  without  a  little  liquor. 


VI. 

.  .  .  So!— She  is  ready:  "Ch&g&  moin,  souple,  chef' 
She  bends  to  lift  the  end  of  the  heavy  trait:  some  one 
takes  the  other, — yon  ! — de  ! — toua  ! — it  is  on  her  head. 
Perhaps  she  winces  an  instant ; — the  weight  is  not  per- 
fectly balanced ;  she  settles  it  with  her  hands, — gets  it 
in  the  exact  place.  Then,  all  steady, — lithe,  light,  half 
naked, — away  she  moves  with  a  long  springy  step.  So 
even  her  walk  that  the  burden  never  sways ;  yet  so 
rapid  her  motion  that  however  good  a  walker  you  may 
fancy  yourself  to  be  you  will  tire  out  after  a  sustained 
effort  of  fifteen  minutes  to  follow  her  uphill.  Fifteen 
minutes  ! — and  she  can  keep  up  that  pace  without  slack- 
ening-— save  for  a  minute  to  eat  and  drink  at  mid-day, — 
for  at  least  twelve  hours  and  fifty-six  minutes,  the  ex- 
treme length  of  a  West  Indian  day.  She  starts  before 
dawn ;  tries  to  reach  her  resting-place  by  sunset :  after 
dark,  like  all  her  people,  she  is  afraid  of  meeting  zombis. 

Let  me  give  you  some  idea  of  her  average  speed 
under  an  average  weight  of  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  pounds, — estimates  based  partly  upon  my  own  ob- 
servations, partly  upon  the  declarations  of  the  trust- 
worthy merchants  who  employ  her,  and  partly  on  the 
assertion  of  habitants  of  the  burghs  or  cities  named — 
all  of  which  statements  perfectly  agree.  From  St.  Pierre 
to  Basse-Pointe,  by  the  national  road,  the  distance  is  a 
trifle  less  than  twenty-seven  kilometres  and  three-quar- 
ters. She  makes  the  transit  easily  in  three  hours  and  a 


Les  Por tenses.  109 

half ;  and  returns  in  the  afternoon,  after  an  absence  of 
scarcely  more  than  eight  hours.  From  St.  Pierre  to 
Morne  Rouge—two  thousand  feet  up  in  the  mountains 
(an  ascent  so  abrupt  that  no  one  able  to  pay  carriage- 
fare  dreams  of  attempting  to  walk  it) — the  distance  is 
seven  kilometres  and  three-quarters.  She  makes  it  in 
little  more  than  an  hour.  But  this  represents  only  the 
beginning  of  her  journey.  She  passes  on  to  Grande 
Anse,  twenty  -  one  and  three  -  quarter  kilometres  away. 
But  she  does  not  rest  there :  she  returns  at  the  same 
pace,  and  reaches  St.  Pierre  before  dark.  From  St.  Pierre 
to  Gros-Morne  the  distance  to  be  twice  traversed  by  her 
is  more  than  thirty-two  kilometres.  A  journey  of  sixty- 
four  kilometres, — daily,  perhaps, — forty  miles !  And  there 
are  many  machannes  who  make  yet  longer  trips, — trips 
of  three  or  four  days'  duration; — these  rest  at  villages 
upon  their  route. 

VII. 

SUCH  travel  in  such  a  country  would  be  impossible 
but  for  the  excellent  national  roads, — limestone  high- 
ways, solid,  broad,  faultlessly  graded, — that  wind  from 
town  to  town,  from  hamlet  to  hamlet,  over  mountains, 
over  ravines ;  ascending  by  zigzags  to  heights  of  twenty- 
five  hundred  feet ;  traversing  the  primeval  forests  of  the 
interior;  now  skirting  the  dizziest  precipices,  now  de- 
scending into  the  loveliest  valleys.  There  are  thirty- 
one  of  these  magnificent  routes,  with  a  total  length  of 
488,052  metres  (more  than  303  miles),  whereof  the  con- 
struction required  engineering  talent  of  the  highest  or- 
der,— the  building  of  bridges  beyond  counting,  and  de- 
vices the  most  ingenious  to  provide  against  dangers  of 
storms,  floods,  and  land -slips.  Most  have  drinking- 
fountains  along  their  course  at  almost  regular  inter- 
vals,— generally  made  by  the  negroes,  who  have  a  sim- 
ple but  excellent  plan  for  turning  the  water  of  a  spring 


1 10  Martinique  Sketches. 

through  bamboo  pipes  to  the  road-way.  Each  road  is 
also  furnished  with  mile  -  stones,  or  rather  kilometre- 
stones  ;  and  the  drainage  is  perfect  enough  to  assure  of 
the  highway  becoming  dry  within  fifteen  minutes  after 
the  heaviest  rain,  so  long  as  the  surface  is  maintained 
in  tolerably  good  condition.  Well-kept  embankments 
of  earth  (usually  covered  with  a  rich  growth  of  mosses, 
vines,  and  ferns),  or  even  solid  walls  of  masonry,  line 
the  side  that  overhangs  a  dangerous  depth.  And  all 
these  highways  pass  through  landscapes  of  amazing 
beauty, — visions  of  mountains  so  many-tinted  and  so 
singular  of  outline  that  they  would  almost  seem  to  have 
been  created  for  the  express  purpose  of  compelling  as- 
tonishment. This  tropic  Nature  appears  to  call  into 
being  nothing  ordinary :  the  shapes  which  she  evokes 
are  always  either  gracious  or  odd, — and  her  eccentrici- 
ties, her  extravagances,  have  a  fantastic  charm,  a  gro- 
tesqueness  as  of  artistic  whim.  Even  where  the  land- 
scape-view is  cut  off  by  high  woods  the  forms  of  ancient 
trees — the  infinite  interwreathing  of  vine  growths  all 
on  fire  with  violence  of  blossom-color, — the  enormous 
green  outbursts  of  balisiers,  with  leaves  ten  to  thirteen 
feet  long, — the  columnar  solemnity  of  great  palmistes, — 
the  pliant  quivering  exquisiteness  of  bamboo, — the  furi- 
ous splendor  of  roses  r^n  mad — more  than  atone  for 
the  loss  of  the  horizon.  Sometimes  you  approach  a 
steep  covered  with  a  growth  of  what,  at  first  glance, 
looks  precisely  like  fine  green  fur  :  it  is  a  first-growth  of 
young  bamboo.  Or  you  see  a  hill-side  covered  with  huge 
green  feathers,  all  shelving  down  and  overlapping  as  in 
the  tail  of  some  unutterable  bird :  these  are  baby  ferns. 
And  where  the  road  leaps  some  deep  ravine  with  a 
double  or  triple  bridge  of  white  stone,  note  well  what 
delicious  shapes  spring  up  into  sunshine  from  the  black 
profundity  on  either  hand !  Palmiform  you  might  hasti- 
ly term  them, — but  no  palm  was  ever  so  gracile ;  no 


Les  For  tenses,  1 1 1 

palm  ever  bore  so  dainty  a  head  of  green  plumes  light 
as  lace !  These  likewise  are  ferns  (rare  survivors, 
maybe,  of  that  period  of  monstrous  vegetation  which 
preceded  the  apparition  of  man),  beautiful  tree-ferns, 
whose  every  young  plume,  unrolling  in  a  spiral  from  the 
bud,  at  first  assumes  the  shape  of  a  crozier, — a  crozier 
of  emerald !  Therefore  are  some  of  this  species  called 
"  archbishop-trees,"  no  doubt.  .  .  .  But  one  might  write 
for  a  hundred  years  of  the  sights  to  be  seen  upon  such 
a  mountain  road. 

VIII. 

IN  every  season,  in  almost  every  weather,  the  porteuse 
makes  her  journey, — never  heeding  rain; — her  goods  be- 
ing protected  by  double  and  triple  water-proof  coverings 
well  bound  down  over  her  trait.  Yet  these  tropical  rains, 
coming  suddenly  with  a  cold  wind  upon  her  heated  and 
almost  naked  body,  are  to  be  feared.  To  any  European 
or  unacclimated  white  such  a  wetting,  while  the  pores 
are  all  open  during  a  profuse  perspiration,  would  proba- 
bly prove  fatal :  even  for  white  natives  the  result  is  al- 
ways a  serious  and  protracted  illness.  But  the  porteuse 
seldom  suffers  in  consequences  :  she  seems  proof  against 
fevers,  rheumatisms,  and  ordinary  colds.  When  she  does 
break  down,  however,  the  malady  is  a  frightful  one, — a 
pneumonia  that  carries  off  the  victim  within  forty-eight 
hours.  Happily,  among  her  class,  these  fatalities  are 
very  rare. 

And  scarcely  less  rare  than  such  sudden  deaths  are 
instances  of  failure  to  appear  on  time.  In  one  case,  the 
employer,  a  St.  Pierre  shopkeeper,  on  finding  his  mar- 
chande  more  than  an  hour  late,  felt  so  certain  something 
very  extraordinary  must  have  happened  that  he  sent  out 
messengers  in  all  directions  to  make  inquiries.  It  was 
found  that  the  woman  had  become  a  mother  when  only 
half-way  upon  her  journey  home.  .  .  .  The  child  lived  and 


112  Martinique  Sketches. 

thrived;— she  is  now  a  pretty  chocolate-colored  girl  of 
eight,  who  follows  her  mother  every  day  from  their  mount- 
ain ajoupa  down  to  the  city,  and  back  again, — bearing 
a  little  trait  upon  her  head. 

Murder  for  purposes  of  robbery  is  not  an  unknown 
crime  in  Martinique ;  but  I  am  told  the  porteuses  are 
never  molested.  And  yet  some  of  these  girls  carry  mer- 
chandise to  the  value  of  hundreds  of  francs ;  and  all 
carry  money, — the  money  received  for  goods  sold,  often 
a  considerable  sum.  This  immunity  may  be  partly  owing 
to  the  fact  that  they  travel  during  the  greater  part  of 
the  year  only  by  day, — and  usually  in  company.  A  very 
pretty  girl  is  seldom  suffered  to  journey  unprotected  : 
she  has  either  a  male  escort  or  several  experienced  and 
powerful  women  with  her.  In  the  cacao  season — when 
carriers  start  from  Grande  Anse  as  early  as  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  so  as  to  reach  St.  Pierre  by  dawn — they 
travel  in  strong  companies  of  twenty  or  twenty-five,  sing- 
ing on  the  way.  As  a  general  rule  the  younger  girls  at 
all  times  go  two  together, — keeping  step  perfectly  as  a 
pair  of  blooded  fillies;  only  the  veterans,  or  women  se- 
lected for  special  work  by  reason  of  extraordinary  physi- 
cal capabilities,  go  alone.  To  the  latter  class  belong 
certain  girls  employed  by  the  great  bakeries  of  Fort-de- 
France  and  St.  Pierre:  these  are  veritable  caryatides. 
They  are  probably  the  heaviest-laden  of  all,  carrying  bas- 
kets of  astounding  size  far  up  into  the  mountains  before 
daylight,  so  as  to  furnish  country  families  with  fresh  bread 
at  an  early  hour ;  and  for  this  labor  they  receive  about 
four  dollars  (twenty  francs)  a  month  and  one  loaf  of 
bread  per  diem.  .  .  .  While  stopping  at  a  friend's  house 
among  the  hills,  some  two  miles  from  Fort -de- France, 
I  saw  the  local  bread-carrier  halt  before  our  porch  one 
morning,  and  a  finer  type  of  the  race  it  would  be  difficult 
for  a  sculptor  to  imagine.  Six  feet  tall, — strength  and 


1 


Les  Porteuses.  113 

grace  united  throughout  her  whole  figure  from  neck  to 
heel;  with  that  clear  black  skin  which  is  beautiful  to 
any  but  ignorant  or  prejudiced  eyes ;  and  the  smooth, 
pleasing,  solemn  features  of  a  sphinx, — she  looked  to 
me,  as  she  towered  there  in  the  gold  light,  a  symbolic 
statue  of  Africa.  Seeing  me  smoking  one  of  those  long 
thin  Martinique  cigars  called  bouts,  she  begged  one  ;  and, 
not  happening  to  have  another,  I  gave  her  the  price  of  a 
bunch  of  twenty, — ten  sous.  She  took  it  without  a  smile, 
and  went  her  way.  About  an  hour  and  a  half  later  she 
came  back  and  asked  for  me, — to  present  me  with  the 
finest  and  largest  mango  I  had  ever  seen,  a  monster 
mango.  She  said  she  wanted  to  see  me  eat  it,  and  sat 
down  on  the  ground  to  look  on.  While  eating  it,  I  learn- 
ed that  she  had  walked  a  whole  mile  out  of  her  way  un- 
der that  sky  of  fire,  just  to  bring  her  little  gift  of  gratitude. 


IX. 

FORTY  to  fifty  miles  a  day,  always  under  a  weight  of 
more  than  a  hundred  pounds, — for  when  the  trait  has 
been  emptied  she  puts  in  stones  for  ballast ; — carrying 
her  employer's  merchandise  and  money  over  the  mount- 
ain ranges,  beyond  the  peaks,  across  the  ravines,  through 
the  tropical  forest,  sometimes  through  by-ways  haunted 
by  the  fer-de-lance, — and  this  in  summer  or  winter,  the 
season  of  rains  or  the  season  of  heat,  the  time  of  fevers 
or  the  time  of  hurricanes,  at  a  franc  a  day  ! . .  .  How  does 
she  live  upon  it  ? 

There  are  twenty  sous  to  the  franc.  The  girl  leaves 
St.  Pierre  with  her  load  at  early  morning.  At  the  sec- 
ond village,  Morne  Rouge,  she  halts  to  buy  one,  two,  or 
three  biscuits  at  a  sou  apiece ;  and  reaching  Ajoupa- 
Bouillon  later  in  the  forenoon,  she  may  buy  another  bis- 
cuit or  two.  Altogether  she  may  be  expected  to  eat  five 
sous  of  biscuit  or  bread  before  reaching  Grande  Anse, 


114  Martinique  Sketches. 

where  she  probably  has  a  meal  waiting  for  her.  This 
ought  to  cost  her  ten  sous, — especially  if  there  be  meat 
in  her  ragout :  which  represents  a  total  expense  of  fif- 
teen sous  for  eatables.  Then  there  is  the  additional 
cost  of  the  cheap  liquor,  which  she  must  mix  with  her 
drinking-water,  as  it  would  be  more  than  dangerous  to 
swallow  pure  cold  water  in  her  heated  condition ;  two  or 
three  sous  more.  This  almost  makes  the  franc.  But 
such  a  hasty  and  really  erroneous  estimate  does  not  in^ 
elude  expenses  of  lodging  and  clothing  : — she  may  sleep 
on  the  bare  floor  sometimes,  and  twenty  francs  a  year 
may  keep  her  in  clothes ;  but  she  must  rent  the  floor 
and  pay  for  the  clothes  out  of  that  franc.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  she  not  only  does  all  this  upon  her  twenty  sous 
a  day,  but  can  even  economize  something  which  will 
enable  her,  when  her  youth  and  force  decline,  to  start  in 
business  for  herself.  And  her  economy  will  not  seem 
so  wonderful  when  I  assure  you  that  thousands  of  men 
here  —  huge  men  muscled  like  bulls  and  lions  —  live 
upon  an  average  expenditure  of  five  sous  a  day.  One 
sou  of  bread,  two  sous  of  manioc  flour,-  one  sou  of  dried 
codfish,  one  sou  of  tafia :  such  is  their  meal. 

There  are  women  carriers  who  earn  more  than  a  franc 
a  day, — women  with  a  particular  talent  for  selling,  who 
are  paid  on  commission — from  t€n  to  fifteen  per  cent. 
These  eventually  make  themselves  independent  in  many 
instances ; — they  continue  to  sell  and  bargain  in  person, 
but  hire  a  young  girl  to  carry  the  goods. 


X. 

.  .  .  "Ou  '/<?  machanne!"  rings  out  a  rich  alto,  resonant 
as  the  tone  of  a  gong,  from  behind  the  balisiers  that 
shut  in  our  garden.  There  are  two  of  them— no,  three — 
Maiyotte,  Chechelle,  and  Rina.  Maiyotte  and  Chechelle 
have  just  arrived  from  St.  Pierre; — Rina  comes  from 


Les  Porteuses.  1 1 5 

Gros-Morne  with  fruits  and  vegetables.  Suppose  we 
call  them  all  in,  and  see  what  they  have  got.  Maiyotte 
and  Chechelle  sell  on  commission ;  Rina  sells  for  her 
mother,  who  has  a  little  garden  at  Gros-Morne. 

.  .  .  " Bonjou\  Maiyotte;  —  bonjou\  Chechelle!  coument 
ou  kalle,  Rina,  che  /"  .  .  .  Throw  open  the  folding-doors 
to  let  the  great  trays  pass.  .  .  .  Now  all  three  are  un- 
loaded by  old  Thereza  and  by  young  Adou; —  all  the 
packs  are  on  the  floor,  and  the  water-proof  wrappings 
are  being  uncorded,  while  Ah-Manmzell,  the  adopted 
child,  brings  the  rum  and  water  for  the  tall  walkers. 

..."  Oh,  what  a  medley,  Maiyotte !"  .  .  .  Inkstands 
and  wooden  cows ;  purses  and  paper  dogs  and  cats ;  dolls 
and  cosmetics ;  pins  and  needles  and  soap  and  tooth- 
brushes;  candied  fruits  and  smoking-caps ;  pelotes  of 
thread,  and  tapes,  and  ribbons,  and  laces,  and  Madeira 
wine  ;  cuffs,  and  collars,  and  dancing-shoes,  and  tobacco 
sachets.  .  .  .  But  what  is  in  that  little  flat  bundle  ?  Pres- 
ents for  your  guepe,  if  you  have  one.  .  .  .  Jesis-Maia  /— 
the  pretty  foulards  !  Azure  and  yellow  in  checkerings  ; 
orange  and  crimson  in  stripes  ;  rose  and  scarlet  in  plaid- 
ings  ;  and  bronze  tints,  and  beetle-tints  of  black  and 
green. 

"  Chechelle,  what  a  bloucoutoum  if  you  should  ever 
let  that  tray  fall — ate  yaie  ya'ie  /"  Here  is  a  whole  shop 
of  crockeries  and  porcelains ; — plates,  dishes,  cups, — 
earthen- ware  canaris  and  dobannes ;  and  gift -mugs  and 
cups  bearing  Creole  girls'  names, — all  names  that  end  in 
ine:  "  Micheline,"  "  Honorine,"  "  Prosperine  "  [you  will 
never  sell  that,  Chechelle  :  there  is  not  a  Prosperine 
this  side  of  St.  Pierre],  "  Azaline,"  "Leontine,"  "Zephyr- 
ine,"  "  Albertine,"  "  Chrysaline,"  "  Florine,"  "Coral- 
line," "  Alexandrine.".  .  .  .  And  knives  and  forks,  and 
cheap  spoons,  and  tin  coffee-pots,  and  tin  rattles  for 
babies,  and  tin  flutes  for  horrid  little  boys, — and  pen- 
cils and  note-paper  and  envelopes !  .  .  . 


n6  Martinique  Sketches. 

..."  Oh,  Rina,  what  superb  oranges  ! — fully  twelve 
inches  round !  .  .  .  and  these,  which  look  something  like 
our  mandarins,  what  do  you  call  them  ?"  "  Zorange- 
macaque !"  (monkey-oranges).  And  here  are  avocados 
— beauties  ! — guavas  of  three  different  kinds, — tropical 
cherries  (which  have  four  seeds  instead  of  one), — trop- 
ical raspberries,  whereof  the  entire  eatable  portion  comes 
off  in  one  elastic  piece,  lined  with  something  like  white 
silk.  .  .  .  Here  are  fresh  nutmegs :  the  thick  green  case 
splits  in  equal  halves  at  a  touch ,  and  see  the  beautiful 
heart  within, —  deep  dark  glossy  red,  all  wrapped  in  a 
bright  net-work  of  flat  blood-colored  fibre,  spun  over  it 
like  branching  veins.  .  .  .  This  big  heavy  red-and-yellow 
thing  is  a  pomme-cythere :  the  smooth  cuticle,  bitter  as 
gall,  covers  a  sweet  juicy  pulp,  interwoven  with  some- 
thing that  seems  like  cotton  thread.  .  .  .  Here  is  a  pomme- 
cannelle :  inside  its  scaly  covering  is  the  most  delicious 
yellow  custard  conceivable,  with  little  black  seeds  float- 
ing in  it.  This  larger  corossol  has  almost  as  delicate  an 
interior,  only  the  custard  is  white  instead  of  yellow.  .  .  . 
Here  are  christophines, — great  pear-shaped  things,  white 
and  green,  according  to  kind,  with  a  peel  prickly  and 
knobby  as  the  skin  of  a  horned  toad ;  but  they  stew  ex- 
quisitely. And  melongenes,  or  egg-plants ;  and  palmiste- 
pith,  and  chadlques,  and  pommes-d'  Haiti, — and  roots  that 
at  first  sight  look  all  alike,  but  they  are  not :  there  are 
camanioc,  and  couscous,  and  choux-cara'ibes,  and  zignames, 
and  various  kinds  oipatates  among  them.  Old  Thereza's 
magic  will  transform  these  shapeless  muddy  things,  be- 
fore evening,  into  pyramids  of  smoking  gold, — into  odor- 
ous porridges  that  will  look  like  messes  of  molten  amber 
and  liquid  pearl ; — for  Rina  makes  a  good  sale. 

Then  Chechelle  manages  to  dispose  of  a  tin  coffee-pot 
and  a  big  canari.  .  .  .  And  Maiyotte  makes  the  best  sale 
of  all ;  for  the  sight  of  a  funny  biscuit  doll  has  made 
Ah-Manmzell  cry  and  smile  so  at  the  same  time  that  I 


Les  Porteuses.  117 

should  feel  unhappy  for  the  rest  of  my  life  if  I  did  not 
buy  it  for  her.  I  know  I  ought  to  get  some  change 
out  of  that  six  francs ; — and  Maiyotte,  who  is  black  but 
comely  as  the  tents  of  Kedar,  as  the  curtains  of  Solo- 
mon, seems  to  be  aware  of  the  fact. 

Oh,  Maiyotte,  how  plaintive  that  pretty  sphinx  face  of 
yours,  now  turned  in  profile  ; — as  if  you  knew  you  looked 
beautiful  thus, — with  the  great  gold  circlets  of  your  ears 
glittering  and  swaying  as  you  bend !  And  why  are  you 
so  long,  so  long  untying  that  poor  little  canvas  purse  ?— 
fumbling  and  fingering  it  ? — is  it  because  you  want  me 
to  think  of  the  weight  of  that  trait  and  the  sixty  kilo- 
metres you  must  walk,  and  the  heat,  and  the  dust,  and 
all  the  disappointments  ?  Ah,  you  are  cunning,  Mai- 
yotte !  No,  I  do  not  want  the  change  ! 


XI. 

.  .  .  TRAVELLING  together,  the  porteuses  often  walk  in 
silence  for  hours  at  a  time ; — this  is  when  they  feel  weary. 
Sometimes  they  sing, — most  often  when  approaching  their 
destination ; — and  when  they  chat,  it  is  in  a  key  so  high- 
pitched  that  their  voices  can  be  heard  to  a  great  dis- 
tance in  this  land  of  echoes  and  elevations. 

But  she  who  travels  alone  is  rarely  silent :  she  talks  to 
herself  or  to  inanimate  things ; — you  may  hear  her  talk- 
ing to  the  trees,  to  the  flowers, — talking  to  the  high  clouds 
and  the  far  peaks  of  changing  color, — talking  to  the  set- 
ting sun  ! 

Over  the  miles  of  the  morning  she  sees,  perchance,  the 
mighty  Piton  Gele,  a  cone  of  amethyst  in  the  light;  and 
she  talks  to  it :  "  Ou  jojoll,  out! — main  ni  envie  monti  as  sou 
ou,  pou  main  one  bien,  Men!"  (Thou  art  pretty,  pretty, 
aye  ! — I  would  I  might  climb  thee,  to  see  far,  far  off !) 

By  a  great  grove  of  palms  she  passes; — so  thickly 
mustered  they  are  that  against  the  sun  their  intermingled 


Ii8  Martinique  Sketches. 

heads  form  one  unbroken  awning  of  green.  Many  rise 
straight  as  masts;  some  bend  at  beautiful  angles,  seem- 
ing to  intercross  their  long  pale  single  limbs  in  a  fantastic 
dance ;  others  curve  like  bows :  there  is  one  that  undulates 
from  foot  to  crest,  like  a  monster  serpent  poised  upon  its 
tail.  She  loves  to  look  at  that  o>i\t,—joli  pie-bois-la  ! — talks 
to  it  as  she  goes  by,' — bids  it  good-day. 

Or,  looking  back  as  she  ascends,  she  sees  the  huge 
blue  dream  of  the  sea, — the  eternal  haunter,  that  ever 
becomes  larger  as  she  mounts  the  road;  and  she  talks 
to  it:  "Mi  lanme  ka  gade  moin!"  (There  is  the  great 
sea  looking  at  me!)  " Mache  toujou  de'ie  moin,  lanme /" 
(Walk  after  me,  O  Sea !) 

Or  she  views  the  clouds  of  Pelee,  spreading  gray  from 
the  invisible  summit,  to  shadow  against  the  sun ;  and  she 
fears  the  rain,  and  she  talks  to  it :  "Pas  mouille  moin,  lap- 
lie-a  !  Quitte  moin  rive  avant  mouille  moin  !  "  (Do  not  wet 
me,  O  Rain  !  Let  me  get  there  before  thou  wettest  me  !) 

Sometimes  a  dog  barks  at  her,  menaces  her  bare  limbs ; 
and  she  talks  to  the  dog :  "  Chien-a,  pas  mode  moin,  chien 
— anh  !  Moin  pa  fe  ou  arien,  chien,  pou  ou  mode  moin  /" 
(Do  not  bite  me,  O  Dog !  Never  did  I  anything  to  thee 
that  thou  shouldst  bite  me,  O  Dog!  Do  not  bite  me, 
dear  !  Do  not  bite  me,  doudoux  /) 

Sometimes  she  meets  a  laden  sister  travelling  the  op- 
posite way.  ..."  Cotiment  ou  ye,  che  ?"  she  cries.  (How 
art  thou,  dear  ?)  And  the  other  makes  answer,  "  Toutt 
douce,  che, — et  ou?"  (All  sweetly,  dear, — and  thou?)  And 
each  passes  on  without  pausing :  they  have  no  time  ! 

...  It  is  perhaps  the  last  human  voice  she  will  hear  for 
many  a  mile.  After  that  only  the  whisper  of  the  grasses 
— gra'ie-gras,  gra'ie-gras  ! — and  the  gossip  of  the  canes — 
chououa,  chououa  ! — and  the  husky  speech  of  the  pois- 
Angole,  ka  babille  conm  yon  vie  fenme, — that  babbles  like 
an  old  woman; — and  the  murmur  of  the  y£/#0-trees,  like 
the  murmur  of  the  River  of  the  Washerwomen. 


Les  For  tenses.  119 


XII. 

.  .  .  SUNDOWN  approaches  :  the  light  has  turned  a  rich 
yellow  j — long  black  shapes  lie  across  the  curving  road, 
shadows  of  balisier  and  palm,  shadows  of  tamarind  and 
Indian-reed,  shadows  of  ceiba  and  giant-fern.  And  the 
porteuses  are  coming  down  through  the  lights  and  dark- 
nesses of  the  way  from  far  Grande  Anse,  to  halt  a  mo- 
ment in  this  little  village.  They  are  going  to  sit  down 
on  the  road-side  here,  before  the  house  of  the  baker;  and 
there  is  his  great  black  workman,  Jean -Marie,  looking 
for  them  from  the  door-way,  waiting  to  relieve  them  of 
their  loads.  .  .  .  Jean-Marie  is  the  strongest  man  in  all 
the  Champ-Flore  :  see  what  a  torso, — as  he  stands  there 
naked  to  the  waist !  .  .  .  His  day's  work  is  done ;  but  he 
likes  to  wait  for  the  girls,  though  he  is  old  now,  and  has 
sons  as  tall  as  himself.  It  is  a  habit :  some  say  that  he 
had  a  daughter  once,  —  a  porteuse  like  those  coming, 
and  used  to  wait  for  her  thus  at  that  very  door-way 
until  one  evening  that  she  failed  to  appear,  and  never 
returned  till  he  carried  her  home  in  his  arms  dead, — 
stricken  by  a  serpent  in  some  mountain  path  where 
there  was  none  to  aid.  .  .  .  The  roads  were  not  as  good 
then  as  now. 

.  .  .  Here  they  come,  the  girls — yellow,  red,  black.  See 
the  flash  of  the  yellow  feet  where  they  touch  the  light ! 
And  what  impossible  tint  the  red  limbs  take  in  the 
changing  glow !  .  .  .  Finotte,  Pauline,  Medelle, — all  to- 
gether, as  usual,  —  with  Ti-Cle  trotting  behind,  very 
tired.  .  .  .  Never  mind,  Ti-Cle ! — you  will  outwalk  your 
cousins  when  you  are  a  few  years  older, — pretty  Ti- 
de. .  .  .  Here  come  Cyrillia  and  Zabette,  and  Fefe  and 
Dodotte  and  Fevriette.  And  behind  them  are  coming 
the  two  chabineS) — golden  girls  :  the  twin-sisters  who  sell 
silks  and  threads  and  foulards ;  always  together,  al- 
ways wearing  robes  and  kerchiefs  of  similar  color, — so 
II 


I2O  Martinique  Sketches. 

that  you  can  never  tell  which  is  Lorrainie  and  which 
Edoualise. 

And  all  smile  to  see  Jean-Marie  waiting  for  them,  and 
to  hear  his  deep  kind  voice  calling,  "  Coument  ou  ye, 
eke?  coument  ou  kalle  ?"  .  .  .  (How  art  thou,  dear? — how 
goes  it  with  thee  ?) 

And  they  mostly  make  answer,  Toutt  douce,  che, — et 
ou  ?"  (All  sweetly,  dear, — and  thou?)  But  some,  over- 
weary, cry  to  him,  "Ah!  dechage  main  vite,  che!  main 
lasse,  lasse  T  (Unload  me  quickly,  dear;  for  I  am  very, 
very  weary.)  Then  he  takes  off  their  burdens,  and 
fetches  bread  for  them,  and  says  foolish  little  things  to 
make  them  laugh.  And  they  are  pleased,  and  laugh, 
just  like  children,  as  they  sit  right  down  on  the  road 
there  to  munch  their  dry  bread. 

...  So  often  have  I  watched  that  scene  !  .  .  .  Let  me 
but  close  my  eyes  one  moment,  and  it  will  come  back 
to  me, — through  all  the  thousand  miles, — over  the  graves 
of  the  days.  .  .  . 

Again  I  see  the  mountain  road  in  the  yellow  glow, 
banded  with  umbrages  of  palm.  Again  I  watch  the 
light  feet  coming, — now  in  shadow,  now  in  sun, — sound- 
lessly as  falling  leaves.  Still  I  can  hear  the  voices 
crying,  "Ah!  dechage  moin  vite,  che  ! — moin  lasse!" — and 
see  the  mighty  arms  outreach  to  take  the  burdens  away. 

.  .  .  Only,  there  is  a  change, — I  know  not  what !  .  .  .  All 
vapory  the  road  is,  and  the  fronds,  and  the  comely  com- 
ing feet  of  the  bearers,  and  even  this  light  of  sunset,— 
sunset  that  is  ever  larger  and  nearer  to  us  than  dawn, 
even  as  death  than  birth.  And  the  weird  way  appeareth 
a  way  whose  dust  is  the  dust  of  generations ; — and  the 
Shape  that  waits  is  never  Jean-Marie,  but  one  darker 
and  stronger ;— and  these  are  surely  voices  of  tired  souls 
who  cry  to  Thee,  thou  dear  black  Giver  of  the  per- 
petual rest,  "Ah!  dechage  moin  vite,  che ! — moin  lasse!" 


LA    GRANDE   ANSE. 

i. 

WHILE  at  the  village  of  Morne  Rouge,  I  was  frequent- 
ly impressed  by  the  singular  beauty  of  young  girls  from 
the  north-east  coast — all  porteuses,  who  passed  almost 
daily,  on  their  way  from  Grande  Anse  to  St.  Pierre  and 
back  again, — a  total  trip  of  thirty-five  miles.  ...  I  knew 
they  were  from  Grande  Anse,  because  the  village  baker, 
at  whose  shop  they  were  wont  to  make  brief  halts,  told 
me  a  good  deal  about  them  :  he  knew  each  one  by  name. 
Whenever  a  remarkably  attractive  girl  appeared,  and  I 
would  inquire  whence  she  came,  the  invariable  reply 
(generally  preceded  by  that  peculiarly  intoned  French 
"Ah!"  signifying,  "Why,  you  certainly  ought  to  know!") 
was  "  Grande  Anse."  .  .  .  Ah  !  c*est  de  Grande  Anse,  $a  ! 
And  if  any  commonplace,  uninteresting  type  showed  it- 
self, it  would  be  signalled  as  from  somewhere  else — 
Gros-Morne,  Capote,  Marigot,  perhaps, — but  never  from 
Grande  Anse.  The  Grande  Anse  girls  were  distinguish- 
able by  their  clear  yellow  or  brown  skins,  lithe  light  fig- 
ures, and  a  particular  grace  in  their  way  of  dressing. 
Their  short  robes  were  always  of  bright  and  pleasing 
colors,  perfectly  contrasting  with  the  ripe  fruit-tint  of 
nude  limbs  and  faces  :  I  could  discern  a  partiality  for 
white  stuffs  with  apricot-yellow  stripes,  for  plaidings  of 
blue  and  violet,  and  various  patterns  of  pink  and  mauve. 
They  had  a  graceful  way  of  walking  under  their  trays, 
with  hands  clasped  behind  their  heads,  and  arms  uplifted 


122  Martinique  Sketches. 

in  the  manner  of  caryatides.  An  artist  would  have 
been  wild  with  delight  for  the  chance  to  sketch  some  of 
them.  ...  On  the  whole,  they  conveyed  the  impression 
that  they  belonged  to  a  particular  race,  very  different 
from  that  of  the  chief  city  or  its  environs. 

"  Are  they  all  banana  -  colored  at  Grande  Anse  ?"  I 
asked, — "  and  all  as  pretty  as  these  ?" 

"  I  was  never  at  Grande  Anse,"  the  little  baker  an- 
swered, "  although  I  have  been  forty  years  in  Marti- 
nique ;  but  I  know  there  is  a  fine  class  of  young  girls 
there  :  il  y  a  line  belle  jeunesse  /a,  man  cher  /" 

Then  I  wondered  why  the  youth  of  Grande  Anse 
should  be  any  finer  than  the  youth  of  other  places ;  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  baker's  own  statement  of  his 
never  having  been  there  might  possibly  furnish  a  clew.  .  .  . 
Out  of  the  thirty-five  thousand  inhabitants  of  St.  Pierre 
and  its  suburbs,  there  are  at  least  twenty  thousand  who 
never  have  been  there,  and  most  probably  never  will  be. 
Few  dwellers  of  the  west  coast  visit  the  east  coast :  in 
fact,  except  among  the  white  Creoles,  who  represent  but 
a  small  percentage  of  the  total  population,  there  are  few 
persons  to  be  met  with  who  are  familiar  with  all  parts  of 
their  native  island.  It  is  so  mountainous,  and  travelling 
is  so  wearisome,  that  populations  may  live  and  die  in  ad- 
jacent valleys  without  climbing  the  intervening  ranges  to 
look  at  one  another.  Grande  Anse  is  only  about  twenty 
miles  from  the  principal  city ;  but  it  requires  some  con- 
siderable inducement  to  make  the  journey  on  horseback; 
and  only  the  professional  carrier-girls,  plantation  mes- 
sengers, and  colored  people  of  peculiarly  tough  constitu- 
tion attempt  it  on  foot.  Except  for  the  transportation  of 
sugar  and  rum,  there  is  practically  no  communication  by 
sea  between  the  west  and  the  north-east  coast— the  sea 
is  too  dangerous — and  thus  the  populations  on  either 
side  of  the  island  are  more  or  less  isolated  from  each 
other,  besides  being  further  subdivided  and  segregated 


La  Grande  Anse.  123 

by  the  lesser  mountain  chains  crossing  their  respective 
territories.  ...  In  view  of  all  these  things  I  wondered 
whether  a  community  so  secluded  might  not  assume 
special  characteristics  within  two  hundred  years — might 
not  develop  into  a  population 'of  some  yellow,  red,  or 
brown  type,  according  to  the  predominant  element  of 
the  original  race-crossing. 


II. 

I  HAD  long  been  anxious  to  see  the  city  of  the  Por- 
teuses,  when  the  opportunity  afforded  itself  to  make  the 
trip  with  a  friend  obliged  to  go  thither  on  some  impor- 
tant business ; — I  do  not  think  I  should  have  ever  felt 
resigned  to  undertake  it  alone.  With  a  level  road  the 
distance  might  be  covered  very  quickly,  but  over  mount- 
ains the  journey  is  slow  and  wearisome  in  the  perpetual 
tropic  heat.  Whether  made  on  horseback  or  in  a  car- 
riage, it  takes  between  four  and  five  hours  to  go  from 
St.  Pierre  to  Grand  Anse,  and  it  requires  a  longer  time 
to  return,  as  the  road  is  then  nearly  all  uphill.  The 
young  porteuse  travels  almost  as  rapidly ;  and  the  bare- 
footed black  postman,  who  carries  the  mails  in  a  square 
box  at  the  end  of  a  pole,  is  timed  on  leaving  Morne 
Rouge  at  4  A.M.  to  reach  Ajoupa-Bouillon  a  little  after 
six,  and  leaving  Ajoupa-Bouillon  at  half-past  six  to  reach 
Grande  Anse  at  half -past  eight,  including  many  stop- 
pages and  delays  on  the  way. 

Going  to  Grande  Anse  from  the  chief  city,  one  can 
either  hire  a  horse  or  carriage  at  St.  Pierre,  or  ascend 
to  Morne  Rouge  by  the  public  conveyance,  and  there 
procure  a  vehicle  or  animal,  which  latter  is  the  cheaper 
and  easier  plan.  About  a  mile  beyond  Morne  Rouge, 
where  the  old  Calebasse  road  enters  the  public  highway, 
you  reach  the  highest  point  of  the  journey, — the  top  of 
the  enormous  ridge  dividing  the  north-east  from  the  west- 


124  Martinique  Sketches. 

era  coast,  and  cutting  off  the  trade-winds  from  sultry  St. 
Pierre.  By  climbing  the  little  hill,  with  a  tall  stone  cross 
on  its  summit,  overlooking  the  Champ-Flore  just  here,  you 
can  perceive  the  sea  on  both  sides  of  the  island  at  once— 
lapis  lazuli  blue.  From  this  elevation  the  road  descends 
by  a  hundred  windings  and  lessening  undulations  to  the 
eastern  shore.  It  sinks  between  mornes  wooded  to  their 
summits, — bridges  a  host  of  torrents  and  ravines, — pass- 
es gorges  from  whence  colossal  trees  tower  far  overhead, 
through  heavy  streaming  of  lianas,  to  mingle  their  green 
crowns  in  magnificent  gloom.  Now  and  then  you  hear  a 
low  long  sweet  sound  like  the  deepest  tone  of  a  silver 
flute, — a  bird-call,  the  cry  of  the  siffleur-de-montagne ;  then 
all  is  stillness.  You  are  not  likely  to  see  a  white  face 
again  for  hours,  but  at  intervals  a  porteuse  passes,  walk- 
ing very  swiftly,  or  a  field-hand  heavily  laden  ;  and  these 
salute  you  either  by  speech  or  a  lifting  of  the  hand  to 
the  head.  .  .  .  And  it  is  very  pleasant  to  hear  the  greet- 
ings and  to  see  the  smiles  of  those  who  thus  pass, — the 
fine  brown  girls  bearing  trays,  the  dark  laborers  bowed 
under  great  burdens  of  bamboo-grass, — Bonjou\  Missie! 
Then  you  should  reply,  if  the  speaker  be  a  woman  and 
pretty,  "Good-day,  dear"  (bonjou\  che],  or,  "Good-day,  my 
daughter"  (mqfi)  even  if  she  be  old;  while  if  the  pass- 
er-by be  a  man,  your  proper  reply  is,  "Good -day,  my 
son  "  (mofift).  .  .  .  They  are  less  often  uttered  now  than 
in  other  years,  these  kindly  greetings,  but  they  still  form 
part  of  the  good  and  true  Creole  manners. 

The  feathery  beauty  of  the  tree-ferns  shadowing  each 
brook,  the  grace  of  bamboo  and  arborescent  grasses,  seem 
to  decrease  as  the  road  descends, — but  the  palms  grow 
taller.  Often  the  way  skirts  a  precipice  dominating  some 
marvellous  valley  prospect ;  again  it  is  walled  in  by  high 
green  banks  or  shrubby  slopes  which  cut  off  the  view; 
and  always  it  serpentines  so  that  you  cannot  see  more 
than  a  few  hundred  feet  of  the  white  track  before  you. 


A   CREOLE   CAPRE   IN   WORKING    GARB. 


La  Grande  A  me.  1 2  5 

About  the  fifteenth  kilometre  a  glorious  landscape  opens 
to  the  right,  reaching  to  the  Atlantic;  —  the  road  still 
winds  very  high;  forests  are  billowing  hundreds  of  yards 
below  it,  and  rising  miles  away  up  the  slopes  of  mornes, 
beyond  which,  here  and  there,  loom  strange  shapes  of 
mountain, — shading  off  from  misty  green  to  violet  and 
faintest  gray.  And  through  one  grand  opening  in  this 
multicolored  surging  of  hills  and  peaks  you  perceive  the 
gold-yellow  of  cane-fields  touching  the  sky-colored  sea. 
Grande  Anse  lies  somewhere  in  that  direction.  .  ,  .  At 
the  eighteenth  kilometre  you  pass  a  cluster  of  little  coun- 
try cottages,  a  church,  and  one  or  two  large  buildings 
framed  in  shade-trees — the  hamlet  of  Ajoupa-Bouillon. 
Yet  a  little  farther,  and  you  find  you  have  left  all  the 
woods  behind  you.  But  the  road  continues  its  bewilder- 
ing curves  around  and  between  low  mornes  covered  with 
cane  or  cocoa  plants  :  it  dips  down  very  low,  rises  again, 
dips  once  more ; — and  you  perceive  the  soil  is  changing 
color ;  it  is  taking  a  red  tint  like  that  of  the  land  of  the 
American  cotton-belt.  Then  you  pass  the  Riviere  Fa- 
laise  (marked  Ftlasse  upon  old  maps), — with  its  shallow 
crystal  torrent  flowing  through  a  very  deep  and  rocky 
channel, — and  the  Capote  and  other  streams;  and  over 
the  yellow  rim  of  cane-hills  the  long  blue  bar  of  the  sea 
appears,  edged  landward  with  a  dazzling  fringe  of  foam. 
The  heights  you  have  passed  are  no  longer  verdant,  but 
purplish  or  gray, — with  Pelee's  cloud-wrapped  enormity 
overtopping  all.  A  very  strong  warm  wind  is  blowing 
upon  you — the  trade -wind,  always  driving  the  clouds 
west :  this  is  the  sunny  side  of  Martinique,  where  gray 
days  and  heavy  rains  are  less  frequent.  Once  or  twice 
more  the  sea  disappears  and  reappears,  always  over 
canes  ;  and  then,  after  passing  a  bridge  and  turning  a 
last  curve,  thti  road  suddenly  drops  down  to  the  shore 
and  into  the  burgh  of  Grande  Anse. 


126  Martinique  Sketches. 

III. 

LEAVING  Morne  Rouge  at  about  eight  in  the  morning, 
my  friend  and  I  reached  Grande  Anse  at  half-past  eleven. 
Everything  had  been  arranged  to  make  us  comfortable. 
I  was  delighted  with  the  airy  corner  room,  commanding 
at  once  a  view  of  the  main  street  and  of  the  sea — a  very 
high  room,  all  open  to  the  trade-winds — which  had  been 
prepared  to  receive  me.  But  after  a  long  carriage  ride 
in  the  heat  of  a  tropical  June  day,  one » always  feels  the 
necessity  of  a  little  physical  exercise.  I  lingered  only 
a  minute  or  two  in  the  house,  and  went  out  to  look  at 
the  little  town  and  its  surroundings. 

As  seen  from  the  high-road,  the  burgh  of  Grande 
Anse  makes  a  long  patch  of  darkness  between  the  green 
of  the  coast  and  the  azure  of  the  water :  it  is  almost 
wholly  black  and  gray — suited  to  inspire  an  etching. 
High  slopes  of  cane  and  meadow  rise  behind  it  and  on 
either  side,  undulating  up  and  away  to  purple  and  gray 
tips  of  mountain  ranges.  North  and  south,  to  left  and 
right,  the  land  reaches  out  in  two  high  promontories, 
mostly  green,  and  about  a  mile  apart— the  Pointe  du 
Rochet  and  the  Pointe  de  Seguinau,  or  Croche-Mort, 
which  latter  name  preserves  the  legend  of  an  insurgent 
slave,  a  man  of  color,  shot  dead  upon  the  cliff.  These 
promontories  form  the  semicircular  bay  of  Grande  Anse. 
All  this  Grande  Anse,  or  "Great  Creek,"  valley  is  an 
immense  basin  of  basalt ;  and  narrow  as  it  is,  no  less 
than  five  streams  water  it,  including  the  Riviere  de  la 
Grande  Anse. 

There  are  only  three  short  streets  in  the  town.  The 
principal,  or  Grande  Rue,  is  simply  a  continuation  of 
the  national  road ;  there  is  a  narrower  one  below,  which 
used  to  be  called  the  Rue  de  la  Paille,  because  the  cot- 
tages lining  it  were  formerly  all  thatched  with  cane 
straw ;  and  there  is  one  above  it,  edging  the  cane-fields 


La  Grande  Anse.  127 

that  billow  away  to  the  meeting  of  morne  and  sky. 
There  is  nothing  of  architectural  interest,  and  all  is 
sombre, — walls  and  roofs  and  pavements.  But  after 
you  pass  through  the  city  and  follow  the  southern  route 
that  ascends  the  Seguinau  promontory,  you  can  ob- 
tain some  lovely  landscape  views— a  grand  surging  of  • 
rounded  mornes,  with  farther  violet  peaks,  truncated  or 
horned,  pushing  up  their  heads  in  the  horizon  above  the 
highest  flutterings  of  cane ;  and  looking  back  above  the 
town,  you  may  see  Pelee  all  unclouded, — not  as  you  see 
it  from  the  other  coast,  but  an  enormous  ghostly  sil- 
houette, with  steep  sides  and  almost  square  summit,  so 
pale  as  to  seem  transparent.  Then  if  you  cross  the 
promontory  southward,  the  same  road  will  lead  you  into 
another  very  beautiful  valley,  watered  by  a  broad  rocky 
torrent, — the  Valley  of  the  Riviere  du  Lorrain.  This 
clear  stream  rushes  to  the  sea  through  a  lofty  opening 
in  the  hills ;  and  looking  westward  between  them,  you 
will  be  charmed  by  the  exquisite  vista  of  green  shapes 
piling  and  pushing  up  one  behind  another  to  reach  a 
high  blue  ridge  which  forms  the  background — a  vision 
of  tooth-shaped  and  fantastical  mountains, — part  of  the 
great  central  chain  running  south  and  north  through 
nearly  the  whole  island.  It  is  over  those  blue  summits 
that  the  wonderful  road  called  La  Trace  winds  between 
primeval  forest  walls. 

But  the  more  you  become  familiar  with  the  face  of 
the  little  town  itself,  the  more  you  are  impressed  by  the 
strange  swarthy  tone  it  preserves  in  all  this  splendid  ex- 
panse of  radiant  tinting.  There  are  only  two  points  of 
visible  color  in  it,  —  the  church  and  hospital,  built  of 
stone,  which  have  been  painted  yellow:  as  a  mass  in  the 
landscape,  lying  between  the  dead-gold  of  the  cane-clad 
hills  and  the  delicious  azure  of  the  sea,  it  remains  al- 
most black  under  the  prodigious  blaze  of  light.  The 
foundations  of  volcanic  rock,  three  or  four  feet  high,  on 


128  Martinique  Sketches. 

which  the  frames  of  the  wooden  dwellings  rest,  are 
black;  and  the  sea-wind  appears  to  have  the  power  of 
blackening  all  timber -work  here  through  any  coat  of 
paint.  Roofs  and  facades  look  as  if  they  had  been 
long  exposed  to  coal-smoke,  although  probably  no  one 
in  Grande  Anse  ever  saw  coal ;  and  the  pavements  of 
pebbles  and  cement  are  of  a  deep  ash-color,  full  of  mi- 
caceous scintillation,  and  so  hard  as  to  feel  disagreeable 
even  to  feet  protected  by  good  thick  shoes.  By-and-by 
you  notice  walls  of  black  stone,  bridges  of  black  stone, 
and  perceive  that  black  forms  an  element  of  all  the  land- 
scape about  you.  On  the  roads  leading  from  the  town 
you  note  from  time  to  time  masses  of  jagged  rock  or 
great  bowlders  protruding  through  the  green  of  the 
slopes,  and  dark  as  ink.  These  black  surfaces  also 
sparkle.  The  beds  of  all  the  neighboring  rivers  are 
filled  with  dark  gray  stones ;  and  many  of  these,  broken 
by  those  violent  floods  which  dash  rocks  together, — 
deluging  the  valleys,  and  strewing  the  soil  of  the  bottom- 
lands (fonds)  with  dead  serpents, — display  black  cores. 
Bare  crags  projecting  from  the  green  cliffs  here  and 
there  are  soot-colored,  and  the  outlying  rocks  of  the 
coast  offer  a  similar  aspect.  And  the  sand  of  the  beach 
is  funereally  black — looks  almost  like  powdered  char- 
coal ;  and  as  you  walk  over  it,  sinking  three  or  four 
inches  every  step,  you  are  amazed  by  the  multitude  and 
brilliancy  of  minute  flashes  in  it,  like  a  subtle  silver  ef- 
fervescence. 

This  extraordinary  sand  contains  ninety  per  cent,  of 
natural  steel,  and  efforts  have  been  made  to  utilize  it  in- 
dustrially. Some  years  ago  a  company  was  formed,  and 
a  machine  invented  to  separate  the  metal  from  the  pure 
sand, — an  immense  revolving  magnet,  which,  being  set 
in  motion  under  a  sand  shower,  caught  the  ore  upon  it. 
When  the  covering  thus  formed  by  the  adhesion  of  the 
steel  became  of  a  certain  thickness,  the  simple  interrup- 


La  Grande  A  nse.  1 29 

tion  of  an  electric  current  precipitated  the  metal  into  ap- 
propriate receptacles.  Fine  bars  were  made  from  this 
volcanic  steel,  and  excellent  cutting  tools  manufactured 
from  it :  French  metallurgists  pronounced  the  product  of 
peculiar  excellence,  and  nevertheless  the  project  of  the 
company  was  abandoned.  Political  disorganization  con- 
sequent upon  the  establishment  of  universal  suffrage 
frightened  capitalists  who  might  have  aided  the  under- 
taking under  a  better  condition  of  affairs ;  and  the  lack 
of  large  means,  coupled  with  the  cost  of  freight  to  remote 
markets,  ultimately  baffled  this  creditable  attempt  to 
found  a  native  industry. 

Sometimes  after  great  storms  bright  brown  sand  is 
flung  up  from  the  sea-depths  ;  but  the  heavy  black  sand , 
always  reappears  again  to  make  the  universal  color  of 
the  beach. 

IV. 

BEHIND  the  roomy  wooden  house  in  which  I  occupied 
an  apartment  there  was  a  small  garden-plot  surrounded 
with  a  hedge  strengthened  by  bamboo  fencing,  and  ra- 
diant with  flowers  of  the  loseille-bois, — the  Creole  name 
for  a  sort  of  begonia,  whose  closed  bud  exactly  resem- 
bles a  pink  and  white  dainty  bivalve  shell,  and  whose 
open  blossom  imitates  the  form  of  a  butterfly.  Here  and 
there,  on  the  grass,  were  nets  drying,  and  nasses — curious 
fish-traps  made  of  split  bamboos  interwoven  and  held  in 
place  with  mibi  stalks  (the  mibi  is  a  liana  heavy  and 
tough  as  copper  wire)  ;  and  immediately  behind  the 
garden  hedge  appeared  the  white  flashing  of  the  surf. 
The  most  vivid  recollection  connected  with  my  trip  to 
Grande  Anse  is  that  of  the  first  time  that  I  went  to  the 
end  of  that  garden,  opened  the  little  bamboo  gate,  and 
found  myself  overlooking  the  beach — an  immense  breadth 
of  soot-black  sand,  with  pale  green  patches  and  stripings 
here  and  there  upon  it — refuse  of  cane  thatch,  decom- 


130  Martinique  Sketches. 

posing  rubbish  spread  out  by  old  tides.  The  one  soli- 
tary boat  owned  in  the  community  lay  there  before  me, 
high  and  dry.  It  was  the  hot  period  of  the  afternoon; 
the  town  slept;  there  was  no  living  creature  in  sight; 
and  the  booming  of  the  surf  drowned  all  other  sounds ; 
the  scent  of  the  warm  strong  sea-wind  annihilated  all 
other  odors.  Then,  very  suddenly,  there  came  to  me  a 
sensation  absolutely  weird,  while  watching  the  strange 
wild  sea  roaring  over  its  beach  of  black  sand, — the  sen- 
sation of  seeing  something  unreal,  looking  at  something 
that  had  no  more  tangible  existence  than  a  memory ! 
Whether  suggested  by  the  first  white  vision  of  the  surf 
over  the  bamboo  hedge, — or  by  those  old  green  tide- 
lines  on  the  desolation  of  the  black  beach, — or  by  some 
tone  of  the  speaking  of  the  sea, — or  something  indefin- 
able in  the  living  touch  of  the  wind, — or  by  all  of  these,  I 
cannot  say ; — but  slowly  there  became  defined  within  me 
the  thought  of  having  beheld  just  such  a  coast  very  long 
ago,  I  could  not  tell  where, — in  those  child-years  of  which 
the  recollections  gradually  become  indistinguishable  from 
dreams. 

Soon  as  darkness  comes  upon  Grande  Anse  the  face 
of  the  clock  in  the  church-tower  is  always  lighted :  you 
see  it  suddenly  burst  into  yellow  glow  above  the  roofs 
and  the  cocoa-palms,— just  like  a  pharos.  In  my  room 
I  could  not  keep  the  candle  lighted  because  of  the  sea- 
wind  ;  but  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  close  the  shutters 
of  the  great  broad  windows, — sashless,  of  course,  like  all 
the  glassless  windows  of  Martinique ; — the  breeze  was 
too  delicious.  It  seemed  full  of  something  vitalizing 
that  made  one's  blood  warmer,  and  rendered  one  full  of 
contentment — full  of  eagerness  to  believe  life  all  sweet- 
ness. Likewise,  I  found  it  soporific  —  this  pure,  dry, 
warm  wind.  And  I  thought  there  could  be  no  greater 
delight  in  existence  than  to  lie  down  at  night,  with  all 


La  Grande  A  me.  1 3 1 

the  windows  open, — and  the  Cross  of  the  South  visible 
from  my  pillow, — and  the  sea -wind  pouring  over  the 
bed, — and  the  tumultuous  whispering  and  muttering  of 
the  surf  in  one's  ears, — to  dream  of  that  strange  sapphire 
sea  white-bursting  over  its  beach  of  black  sand. 


V. 

CONSIDERING  that  Grande  Anse  lies  almost  opposite 
to  St.  Pierre,  at  a  distance  of  less  than  twenty  miles 
even  by  the  complicated  windings  of  the  national  road, 
the  differences  existing  in  the  natural  conditions  of  both 
places  are  remarkable  enough.  Nobody  in  St.  Pierre 
sees  the  sun  rise,  because  the  mountains  immediately 
behind  the  city  continue  to  shadow  its  roofs  long  after 
the  eastern  coast  is  deluged  with  light  and  heat.  At 
Grande  Anse,  on  the  other  hand,  those  tremendous  sun- 
sets which  delight  west  coast  dwellers  are  not  visible  at 
all ;  and  during  the  briefer  West  Indian  days  Grande 
Anse  is  all  wrapped  in  darkness  as  early  as  half-past 
four, — or  nearly  an  hour  before  the  orange  light  has 
ceased  to  flare  up  the  streets  of  St.  Pierre  from  the  sea; — 
since  the  great  mountain  range  topped  by  Pelee  cuts  off 
all  the  slanting  light  from  the  east  valleys.  And  early 
as  folks  rise  in  St.  Pierre,  they  rise  still  earlier  at  Grande 
Anse — before  the  sun  emerges  from  the  rim  of  the  At- 
lantic ;  about  half-past  four,  doors  are  being  opened  and 
coffee  is  ready.  At  St.  Pierre  one  can  enjoy  a  sea  bath 
till  seven  or  half-past  seven  o'clock,  even  during  the  time 
of  the  sun's  earliest  rising,  because  the  shadow  of  the 
mornes  still  reaches  out  upon  the  bay:  —  but  bathers 
leave  the  black  beach  of  Grande  Anse  by  six  o'clock ; 
for  once  the  sun's  face  is  up,  the  light,  levelled  straight 
at  the  eyes,  becomes  blinding.  Again,  at  St.  Pierre  it 
rains  almost  every  twenty-four  hours  for  a  brief  while, 
during  at  least  the  greater  part  of  the  year ;  at  Grande 


132  •     Martinique  Sketches. 

Anse  it  rains  more  moderately  and  less  often.  The  at- 
mosphere at  St.  Pierre  is  always  more  or  less  impreg- 
nated with  vapor,  and  usually  an  enervating  heat  pre- 
vails, which  makes  exertion  unpleasant ;  at  Grande  Anse 
the  warm  wind  keeps  the  skin  comparatively  dry,  in  spite 
of  considerable  exercise.  It  is  quite  rare  to  see  a  heavy 
surf  at  St.  Pierre,  but  it  is  much  rarer  not  to  see  it  at 
Grande  Anse.  ...  A  curious  fact  concerning  custom  is 
that  few  white  Creoles  care  to  bathe  in  front  of  the  town, 
notwithstanding  the  superb  beach  and  magnificent  surf, 
both  so  inviting  to  one  accustomed  to  the  deep  still  wa- 
ter and  rough  pebbly  shore  of  St.  Pierre.  The  Creoles 
really  prefer  their  rivers  as  bathing-places ;  and  when 
willing  to  take  a  sea  bath,  they  will  walk  up  and  down 
hill  for  kilometres  in  order  to  reach  some  river  mouth, 
so  as  to  wash  off  in  the  fresh-water  afterwards.  They 
say  that  the  effect  of  sea-salt  upon  the  skin  gives  boutons- 
chauds  (what  we  call  "  prickly  heat  ").  Friends  took  me 
all  the  way  to  the  mouth  of  the  Lorrain  one  morning 
that  I  might  have  the  experience  of  such  a  double  bath ; 
but  after  leaving  the  tepid  sea,  I  must  confess  the  plunge 
into  the  river  was  something  terrible  —  an  icy  shock 
which  cured  me  of  all  further  desire  for  river  baths. 
My  willingness  to  let  the  sea-water  dry  upon  me  was 
regarded  as  an  eccentricity. 

VI. 

IT  may  be  said  that  on  all  this  coast  the  ocean,  per- 
petually moved  by  the  blowing  of  the  trade-winds,  never 
rests  —  never  hushes  its  roar.  Even  in  the  streets  of 
Grande  Anse,  one  must  in  breezy  weather  lift  one's  voice 
above  the  natural  pitch  to  be  heard  ;  and  then  the  break- 
ers come  in  lines  more  than  a  mile  long,  between  the 
Pointe  du  Rochet  and  the  Pointe  de  Seguinau,— every 
unfurling  a  thunder-clap.  There  is  no  travelling  by  sea. 


La  Grande  A  nse.  \  3  3 

All  large  vessels  keep  well  away  from  the  dangerous 
coast.  There  is  scarcely  any  fishing  ;  and  although  the 
sea  is  thick  with  fish,  fresh  fish  at  Grande  Anse  is  a  rare 
luxury.  Communication  with  St.  Pierre  is  chiefly  by  way 
of  the  national  road,  winding  over  mountain  ridges  two 
thousand  feet  high;  and  the  larger  portion  of  merchan- 
dise is  transported  from  the  chief  city  on  the  heads  of 
young  women.  The  steepness  of  the  route  soon  kills 
draught-horses  and  ruins  the  toughest  mules.  At  one 
time  the  managers  of  a  large  estate  at  Grande  Anse 
attempted  the  experiment  of  sending  their  sugar  to  St. 
Pierre  in  iron  carts,  drawn  by  five  mules  ;  but  the  ani- 
mals could  not  endure  the  work.  Cocoa  can  be  carried 
to  St.  Pierre  by  the  porteuses,  but  sugar  and  rum  must 
go  by  sea,  or  not  at  all ;  and  the  risks  and  difficulties  of 
shipping  these  seriously  affect  the  prosperity  of  all  the 
north  and  north-east  coast.  Planters  have  actually  been 
ruined  by  inability  to  send  their  products  to  market  dur- 
ing a  protracted  spell  of  rough  weather.  A  railroad  has 
been  proposed  and  planned  :  in  a  more  prosperous  era  it 
might  be  constructed,  with  the  result  of  greatly  develop- 
ing all  the  Atlantic  side  of  the  island,  and  converting 
obscure  villages  into  thriving  towns. 

Sugar  is  very  difficult  to  ship ;  rum  and  tafia  can  be 
handled  with  less  risk.  It  is  nothing  less  than  exciting 
to  watch  a  shipment  of  tafia  from  Grande  Anse  to  St. 
Pierre, 

A  little  vessel  approaches  the  coast  with  extreme  cau- 
tion, and  anchors  in  the  bay  some  hundred  yards  beyond 
the  breakers.  She  is  what  they  call  a  pirogue  here,  but 
not  at  all  what  is  called  a  pirogue  in  the  United  States : 
she  has  a  long  narrow  hull,  two  masts,  no  deck ;  she  has 
usually  a  crew  of  five,  and  can  carry  thirty  barrels  of 
tafia.  One  of  the  pirogue  men  puts  a  great  shell  to  his 
lips  and  sounds  a  call,  very  mellow  and  deep,  that  can 
be  heard  over  the  roar  of  the  waves  far  up  among  the 

12 


134  Martinique  Sketches. 

hills.  The  shell  is  one  of  those  great  spiral  shells,  weigh- 
ing seven  or  eight  pounds — rolled  like  a  scroll,  fluted 
and  scalloped  about  the  edges,  and  pink-pearled  inside, — 
such  as  are  sold  in  America  for  mantle -piece  orna- 
ments,— the  shell  of  a  Iambi.  Here  you  can  often  see 
the  Iambi  crawling  about  with  its  nacreous  house  upon 
its  back  :  an  enormous  sea-snail  with  a  yellowish  back 
and  rose-colored  belly,  with  big  horns  and  eyes  in  the 
tip  of  each  horn — very  pretty  eyes,  having  a  golden  iris. 
This  creature  is  a  common  article  of  food  ;  but  its  thick 
white  flesh  is  almost  compact  as  cartilage,  and  must  be 
pounded  before  being  cooked.* 

At  the  sound  of  the  blowing  of  the  Iambi-shell,  wagons 
descend  to  the  beach,  accompanied  by  young  colored  men 
running  beside  the  mules.  Each  wagon  discharges  a  cer- 
tain number  of  barrels  of  tafia,  and  simultaneously  the 
young  men  strip.  They  are  slight,  well  built,  and  gen- 
erally well  muscled.  Each  man  takes  a  barrel  of  tafia, 
pushes  it  before  him  into  the  surf,  and  then  begins  to 
swim  to  the  pirogue, — impelling  the  barrel  before  him. 
I  have  never  seen  a  swimmer  attempt  to  convey  more 
than  one  barrel  at  a  time  ;  but  I  am  told  there  are  ex- 
perts who  manage  as  many  as  three  barrels  together, — 
pushing  them  forward  in  line,  with  the  head  of  one  against 
the  bottom  of  the  next.  It  really  requires  much  dex- 
terity and  practice  to  handle  even  one  barrel  or  cask. 
As  the  swimmer  advances  he  keeps  close  as  possible  to 
his  charge, — so  as  to  be  able  to  push  it  forward  with 
all  his  force  against  each  breaker  in  succession, — mak- 
ing it  dive  through.  If  it  once  glide  well  out  of  his 
reach  while  he  is  in  the  breakers,  it  becomes  an  enemy, 

*  Y  batt  li  conm  Iambi — "he  beat  him  like  a  Iambi" — is  an  ex- 
pression that  may  often  be  heard  in  a  Creole  court  from  witnesses 
testifying  in  a  case  of  assault  and  battery.  One  must  have  seen  a 
Iambi  pounded  to  appreciate  the  terrible  picturesqueness  of  the 
phrase. 


La  Grande  A  use.  135 

and  he  must  take  care  to  keep  out  of  its  way, — for  if  a 
wave  throws  it  at  him,  or  rolls  it  over  him,  he  may 
be  seriously  injured ;  but  the  expert  seldom  abandons 
a  barrel.  Under  the  most  favorable  conditions,  man 
and  barrel  will  both  disappear  a  score  of  times  be- 
fore the  clear  swells  are  reached,  after  which  the  rest  of 
the  journey  is  not  difficult.  Men  lower  ropes  from  the 
pirogue,  the  swimmer  passes  them  under  his  barrel,  and 
it  is  hoisted  aboard. 

.  .  .Wonderful  surf -swimmers  these  men  are; — they 
will  go  far  out  for  mere  sport  in  the  roughest  kind  of  a 
sea,  when  the  waves,  abnormally  swollen  by  the  pecul- 
iar conformation  of  the  bay,  come  rolling  in  thirty  and 
forty  feet  high.  Sometimes,  with  the  swift  impulse  of 
ascending  a  swell,  the  swimmer  seems  suspended  in  air 
as  it  passes  beneath  him,  before  he  plunges  into  the 
trough  beyond.  The  best  swimmer  is  a  young  capre 
who  cannot  weigh  more  than  a  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds.  Few  of  the  Grande  Anse  men  are  heavily  built ; 
they  do  not  compare  for  stature  and  thew  with  those 
longshoremen  at  St.  Pierre  who  can  be  seen  any  busy 
afternoon  on  the  landing,  lifting  heavy  barrels  at  almost 
the  full  reach  of  their  swarthy  arms. 

.  .  .  There  is  but  one  boat  owned  in  the  whole  parish 
of  Grande  Anse, — a  fact  due  to  the  continual  roughness 
of  the  sea.  ,  It  has  a  little  mast  and  sail,  and  can  hold 
only  three  men.  When  the  water  is  somewhat  less  angry 
than  usual,  a  colored  crew  take  it  out  for  a  fishing  expe- 
dition. There  is  always  much  interest  in  this  event;  a 
crowd  gathers  on  the  beach ;  and  the  professional  swim- 
mers help  to  bring  the  little  craft  beyond  the  breakers. 
When  the  boat  returns  after  a  disappearance  of  several 
hours,  everybody  runs  down  from  the  village  to  meet  it. 
Young  colored  women  twist  their  robes  up  about  their 
hips,  and  wade  out  to  welcome  it :  there  is  a  display  of 
limbs  of  all  colors  on  such  occasions,  which  is  not  without 


136  Martinique  Sketches. 

grace,  that  untaught  grace  which  tempts  an  artistic  pen- 
cil. Every  bonne  and  every  house-keeper  struggles  for  the 
first  chance  to  buy  the  fish  ; — young  girls  and  children 
dance  in  the  water  for  delight,  all  screaming,  "Rhati  bois- 
canot  /"  .  .  .  Then  as  the  boat  is  pulled  through  the  surf 
and  hauled  up  on  the  sand,  the  pushing  and  screaming 
and  crying  become  irritating  and  deafening;  the  fisher- 
men lose  patience  and  say  terrible  things.  But  nobody 
heeds  them  in  the  general  clamoring  and  haggling  and 
furious  bidding  for  the  pouesson-ououge,  the  dorades,  the 
volants  (beautiful  purple  -  backed  flying-fish  with  silver 
bellies,  and  fins  all  transparent,  like  the  wings  of  drag- 
on-flies). There  is  great  bargaining  even  for  a  young 
shark, — which  makes  very  nice  eating  cooked  after  the 
creole  fashion.  So  seldom  can  the  fishermen  venture  out 
that  each  trip  makes  a  memorable  event  for  the  village. 
The  St.  Pierre  fishermen  very  seldom  approach  the 
bay,  but  they  do  much  fishing  a  few  miles  beyond  it, 
almost  in  front  of  the  Pointe  du  Rochet  and  the  Roche 
a  Bourgaut.  There  the  best  flying-fish  are  caught,— and 
besides  edible  creatures,  many  queer  things  are  often 
brought  up  by  the  nets :  monstrosities  such  as  the  coffre- 
fish,  shaped  almost  like  a  box,  of  which  the  lid  is  repre- 
sented by  an  extraordinary  conformation  of  the  jaws ; — 
and  the  barrique-de-vin  ("  wine  cask  "),  with  round  bone- 
less body,  secreting  in  a  curious  vesicle  a  liquor  precise- 
ly resembling  wine  lees  ; — and  the  "  needle-fish  "  (aiguille 
de  mer),  less  thick  than  a  Faber  lead-pencil,  but  more 
than  twice  as  long; — and  huge  cuttle-fish  and  prodigious 
eels.  One  conger  secured  off  this  coast  measured  over 
twenty  feet  in  length,  and  weighed  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds — a  veritable  sea-serpent.  .  .  .  But  even  the  fresh- 
water inhabitants  of  Grande  Anse  are  amazing.  I  have 
seen  crawfish  by  actual  measurement  fifty  centimetres 
long,  but  these  were  not  considered  remarkable.  Many 
are  said  to  much  exceed  two  feet  from  the  tail  to  the  tip 


La  Grande  Anse.  137 

of  the  claws  and  horns.  They  are  of  an  iron-black  color, 
and  have  formidable  pincers  with  serrated  edges  and  tip- 
points  inwardly  converging,  which  cannot  crush  like  the 
weapons  of  a  lobster,  but  which  will  cut  the  flesh  and 
make  a  small  ugly  wound.  At  first  sight  one  not  famil- 
iar with  the  crawfish  of  these  regions  can  hardly  believe 
he  is  not  viewing  some  variety  of  gigantic  lobster  instead 
of  the  common  fresh-water  crawfish  of  the  east  coast. 
When  the  head,  tail,  legs,  and  cuirass  have  all  been  re- 
moved, after  boiling,  the  curved  trunk  has  still  the  size 
and  weight  of  a  large  pork  sausage. 

These  creatures  are  trapped  by  lantern-light.  Pieces 
of  manioc  root  tied  fast  to  large  bowlders  sunk  in  the 
river  are  the  only  bait; — the  crawfish  will  flock  to  eat 
it  upon  any  dark  night,  and  then  they  are  caught  with 
scoop-nets  and  dropped  into  covered  baskets. 


VII. 

ONE  whose  ideas  of  the  people  of  Grande  Anse  had 
been  formed  only  by  observing  the  young  porteuses  of  the 
region  on  their  way  to  the  other  side  of  the  island,  might 
expect  on  reaching  this  little  town  to  find  its  population 
yellow  as  that  of  a  Chinese  city.  But  the  dominant  hue 
is  much  darker,  although  the  mixed  element  is  everywhere 
visible;  and  I  was  at  first  surprised  by  the  scarcity  of 
those  clear  bright  skins  I  supposed  to  be  so  numerous. 
Some  pretty  children — notably  a  pair  of  twin-sisters,  and 
perhaps  a  dozen  school-girls  from  eight  to  ten  years  of 
age — displayed  the  same  characteristics  I  have  noted  in 
the  adult  porteuses  of  Grande  Anse  ;  but  within  the  town 
itself  this  brighter  element  is  in  the  minority.  The  pre- 
dominating race  element  of  the  whole  commune  is  cer- 
tainly colored  (Grande  Anse  is  even  memorable  because 
of  the  revolt  of  its  hommes  de  couleur  some  fifty  years 
ago); — but  the  colored  population  is  not  concentrated 


138  Martinique  Sketches. 

in  the  town ;  it  belongs  rather  to  the  valleys  and  the 
heights  surrounding  the  chef-lieu.  Most  of  the  porteuses 
are  country  girls,  and  I  found  that  even  those  living  in 
the-village  are  seldom  visible  on  the  streets  except  when 
departing  upon  a  trip  or  returning  from  one.  An  artist 
wishing  to  study  the  type  might,  however,  pass  a  day  at 
the  bridge  of  the  Riviere  Falaise  to  advantage,  as  all 
the  carrier-girls  pass  it  at  certain  hours  of  the  morning 
and  evening. 

But  the  best  possible  occasion  on  which  to  observe 
what  my  friend  the  baker  called  la  belle  jeunesse,  is  a 
confirmation  day,  —  when  the  bishop  drives  to  Grande 
Anse  over  the  mountains,  and  all  the  population  turns 
out  in  holiday  garb,  and  the  bells  are  tapped  like  tam- 
tams, and  triumphal  arches  —  most  awry  to  behold! — 
span  the  road-way,  bearing  in  clumsiest  lettering  the  wel- 
come, Vive  Monseigneur.  On  that  event,  the  long  proces- 
sion of  young  girls  to  be  confirmed — all  in  white  robes, 
white  veils,  and  white  satin  slippers — is  a  numerical  sur- 
prise. It  is  a  moral  surprise  also, — to  the  stranger  at  least; 
for  it  reveals  the  struggle  of  a  poverty  extraordinary  with 
the  self-imposed  obligations  of  a  costly  ceremonialism. 

No  white  children  ever  appear  in  these  processions : 
there  are  not  half  a  dozen  white  families  in  the  whole 
urban  population  of  about  seven  thousand  souls ;  and 
those  send  their  sons  and  daughters  to  St.  Pierre  or 
Morne  Rouge  for  their  religious  training  and  education. 
But  many  of  the  colored  children  look  very  charming  in 
their  costume  of  confirmation ;— you  could  not  easily 
recognize  one  of  them  as  the  same  little  bonne  who  brings 
your  morning  cup  of  coffee,  or  another  as  the  daughter 
of  a  plantation  commandeur  (overseer's  assistant), — a 
brown  slip  of  a  girl  who  will  probably  never  wear  shoes 
again.  And  many  of  those  white  shoes  and  white  veils 
have  been  obtained  only  by  the  hardest  physical  labor 
and  self-denial  of  poor  parents  and  relatives :  fathers, 


La  Grande  A  use.  1 39 

brothers,  and  mothers  working  with  cutlass  and  hoe  in 
the  snake-swarming  cane-fields ; — sisters  walking  bare- 
footed every  day  to  St.  Pierre  and  back  to  earn  a  few 
francs  a  month. 

.  .  .  While  watching  such  a  procession  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  could  discern  in  the  features  and  figures  of 
the  young  confirmants  something  of  a  prevailing  type 
and  tint,  and  I  asked  an  old  planter  beside  me  if  he 
thought  my  impression  correct. 

"Partly,"  he  answered;  "there  is  certainly  a  tendency 
towards  an  attractive  physical  type  here,  but  the  ten- 
dency itself  is  less  stable  than  you  imagine  ;  it  has  been 
changed  during  the  last  twenty  years  within  my  own 
recollection.  In  different  parts  of  the  island  particular 
types  appear  and  disappear  with  a  generation.  There 
is  a  sort  of  race-fermentation  going  on,  which  gives  no 
fixed  result  of  a  positive  sort  for  any  great  length  of 
time.  It  is  true  that  certain  elements  continue  to  domi- 
nate in  certain  communes,  but  the  particular  characteris- 
tics come  and  vanish  in  the  most  mysterious  way.  As  to 
color,  I  doubt  if  any  correct  classification  can  be  made, 
especially  by  a  stranger.  Your  eyes  give  you  general 
ideas  about  a  red  type,  a  yellow  type,  a  brown  type ;  but 
to  the  more  experienced  eyes  of  a  Creole,  accustomed 
to  live  in  the  country  districts,  every  individual  of  mixed 
race  appears  to  have  a  particular  color  of  his  own. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  so-called  capre  type,  which  fur- 
nishes the  finest  physical  examples  of  all, — you,  a  stran- 
ger, are  at  once  impressed  by  the  general  red  tint  of  the 
variety ;  but  you  do  not  notice  the  differences  of  that 
tint  in  different  persons,  which  are  more  difficult  to  ob- 
serve than  shade-differences  of  yellow  or  brown.  Now, 
to  me,  every  capre  or  capresse  has  an  individual  color ; 
and  I  do  not  believe  that  in  all  Martinique  there  are  two 
half-breeds — not  having  had  the  same  father  and  moth- 
er— in  whom  the  tint  is  precisely  the  same," 


140  Martinique  Sketches. 


VIII. 

I  THOUGHT  Grande  Anse  the  most  sleepy  place  I  had 
ever  visited.  I  suspect  it  is  one  of  the  sleepiest  in  the 
whole  world.  The  wind,  which  tans  even  a  Creole  of 
St.  Pierre  to  an  unnatural  brown  within  forty-eight  hours 
of  his  sojourn  in  the  village,  has  also  a  peculiarly  som- 
nolent effect.  The  moment  one  has  nothing  particular 
to  do,  and  ventures  to  sit  down  idly  with  the  breeze  in 
one's  face,  slumber  comes ;  and  everybody  who  can 
spare  the  time  takes  a  long  nap  in  the  afternoon,  and 
little  naps  from  hour  to  hour.  For  all  that,  the  heat  of 
the  east  coast  is  not  enervating,  like  that  of  St.  Pierre; 
one  can  take  a  great  deal  of  exercise  in  the  sun  without 
feeling  much  the  worse.  Hunting  excursions,  river  fish- 
ing parties,  surf-bathing,  and  visits  to  neighboring  plan- 
tations are  the  only  amusements ;  but  these  are  enough 
to  make  existence  very  pleasant  at  Grande  Anse.  The 
most  interesting  of  my  own  experiences  were  those  of  a 
day  passed  by  invitation  at  one  of  the  old  colonial  es- 
tates on  the  hills  near  the  village. 

It  is  not  .easy  to  describe  the  charm  of  a  Creole  inte- 
rior, whether  in  the  city  or  the  country.  The  cool  shad- 
owy court,  with  its  wonderful  plants  and  fountain  of 
sparkling  mountain  water,  or  the  lawn,  with  its  ances- 
tral trees, — the  delicious  welcome  of  the  host,  whose 
fraternal  easy  manner  immediately  makes  you  feel  at 
home, — the  coming  of  the,  children  to  greet  you,  each 
holding  up  a  velvety  brown  cheek  to  be  kissed,  after  the 
old-time  custom, — the  romance  of  the  unconventional 
chat,  over  a  cool  drink,  under  the  palms  and  the  ceibas, — 
the  visible  earnestness  of  all  to  please  the  guest,  to  in- 
wrap  him  in  a  very  atmosphere  of  quiet  happiness, — • 
combine  to  make  a  memory  which  you  will  never  forget. 
And  maybe  you  enjoy  all  this  upon  some  exquisite  site, 
some  volcanic  summit,  overlooking  slopes  of  a  hundred 


La  Grande  Anse.  141 

greens,  —  mountains  far  winding  in  blue  and  pearly 
shadowing, — rivers  singing  seaward  behind  curtains  of 
arborescent  reeds  and  bamboos, — and,  perhaps,  Pelee, 
in  the  horizon,  dreaming  violet  dreams  under  her  foulard, 
of  vapors,  —  and,  encircling  all,  the  still  sweep  of  the 
ocean's  azure  bending  to  the  verge  of  day. 

.  .  .  My  host  showed  or  explained  to  me  all  that  he 
thought  might  interest  a  stranger.  He  had  brought  to 
me  a  nest  of  the  carouge,  a  bird  which  suspends  its  home, 
hammock-fashion,  under  the  leaves  of  the  banana-tree ; — 
showed  me  a  little  fer-de-lance,  freshly  killed  by  one  of 
his  field  hands ;  and  a  field  lizard  (zanoli  te  in  Creole), 
not  green  like  the  lizards  which  haunt  the  roofs  of  St. 
Pierre,  but  of  a  beautiful  brown  bronze,  with  shifting 
tints ;  and  eggs  of  the  zanoli,  little  soft  oval  things  from 
which  the  young  lizards  will  perhaps  run  out  alive  as  fast 
as  you  open  the  shells ;  and  the  matoutou-falaise,  or  spider 
of  the  cliffs,  of  two  varieties,  red  or  almost  black  when 
adult,  and  bluish  silvery  tint  when  young, — less  in  size 
than  the  tarantula,  but  equally  hairy  and  venomous;  and 
the  crabe-c ' est-ma-faute  (the  "  Through-my-fault  Crab  "), 
having  one  very  small  and  one  very  large  claw,  which 
latter  it  carries  folded  up  against  its  body,  so  as  to  have 
suggested  the  idea  of  a  penitent  striking  his  bosom,  and 
uttering  the  sacramental  words  of  the  Catholic  confes- 
sion, "  Through  my  fault,  through  my  fault,  through  my 
most  grievous  fault."  .  .  .  Indeed  I  cannot  recollect  one- 
half  of  the  queer  birds,  queer  insects,  queer  reptiles,  and 
queer  plants  to  which  my  attention  was  called.  But 
speaking  of  plants,  I  was  impressed  by  the  profusion  of 
the  zhebe-moin-mise — a  little  sensitive-plant  I  had  rarely 
observed  on  the  west  coast.  On  the  hill-sides  of  Grande 
Anse  it  prevails  to  such  an  extent  as  to  give  certain 
slopes  its  own  peculiar  greenish-brown  color.  It  has 
many-branching  leaves,  only  one  inch  and  a  half  to  two 
inches  long,  but  which  recall  the  form  of  certain  com- 


142  Martinique  Sketches. 

mon  ferns  ;  these  lie  almost  flat  upon  the  ground.  They 
fold  together  upward  from  the  central  stem  at  the  least 
touch,  and  the  plant  thus  makes  itself  almost  impercepti- 
ble ; — it  seems  to  live  so,  that  you  feel  guilty  of  murder 
if  you  break  off  a  leaf.  It  is  called  Zhebe-moin-mise,  or 
"  Plant-did-I-amuse-myself,"  because  it  is  supposed  to 
tell  naughty  little  children  who  play  truant,  or  who  de- 
lay much  longer  than  is  necessary  in  delivering  a  mes- 
sage, whether  they  deserve  a  whipping  or  not.  The 
guilty  child  touches  the  plant,  and  asks,  "  Ess  main 
amisk  main  ?"  (Did  I  amuse  myself  ?) ;  and  if  the  plant 
instantly  shuts  its  leaves  up,  that  means,  "Yes,  you  did  !" 
Of  course  the  leaves  invariably  close  ;  but  I  suspect  they 
invariably  tell  the  truth,  for  all  colored  children,  in  Grande 
Anse  at  least,  are  much  more  inclined  to  play  than  work. 
The  kind  old  planter  likewise  conducted  me  over  the 
estate.  He  took  me  through  the  sugar-mill,  and  showed 
me,  among  other  more  recent  inventions,  some  machinery 
devised  nearly  two  centuries  ago  by  the  ingenious  and 
terrible  Pere  Labat,  and  still  quite  serviceable,  in  spite 
of  all  modern  improvements  in  sugar-making ; — took  me 
through  the  rhummerie,  or  distillery,  and  made  me  taste 
some  colorless  rum  which  had  the  aroma  and  something 
of  the  taste  of  the  most  delicate  gin  ; — and  finally  took  me 
into  the  cases-a-vent,  or  "wind-houses," — built  as  places 
of  refuge  during  hurricanes.  Hurricanes  are  rare,  and 
more  rare  in  this  century  by  far  than  during  the  previous 
one;  but  this  part  of  the  island  is  particularly  exposed 
to  such  visitations,  and  almost  every  old  plantation  used 
to  have  one  or  two  cases-a-vent.  They  were  always  built 
in  a  hollow,  either  natural  or  artificial,  below  the  land- 
level, — with  walls  of  rock  several  feet  thick,  and  very 
strong  doors,  but  no  windows.  My  host  told  me  about 
the  experiences  of  his  family  in  some  case-a-vent  during 
a  hurricane  which  he  recollected.  It  was  found  neces- 
sary to  secure  the  door  within  by  means  of  strong  ropes ; 


La  Grande  Anse.  143 

and  the  mere  task  of  holding  it  taxed  the  strength  of  a 
dozen  powerful  men  :  it  would  bulge  in  under  the  press- 
ure of  the  awful  wind, — swelling  like  the  side  of  a  bar- 
rel ;  and  had  not  its  planks  been  made  of  a  wood  tough 
as  hickory,  they  would  have  been  blown  into  splinters. 

I  had  long  desired  to  examine  a  plantation  drum,  and 
see  it  played  upon  under  conditions  more  favorable  than 
the  excitement  of  a  holiday  caleinda  in  the  villages,  where 
the  amusement  is  too  often  terminated  by  a  voum  (general 
row)  or  a  goumage  (a  serious  fight) ; — and  when  I  men- 
tioned this  wish  to  the  planter  he  at  once  sent  word  to 
his  commandeur,  the  best  drummer  in  the  settlement,  to 
come  up  to  the  house  and  bring  his  instrument  with  him. 
I  was  thus  enabled  to  make  the  observations  necessary, 
and  also  to  take  an  instantaneous  photograph  of  the 
drummer  in  the  very  act  of  playing. 

The  old  African  dances,  the  caleinda  and  the  bele  (which 
latter  is  accompanied  by  chanted  improvisation)  are 
danced  on  Sundays  to  the  sound  of  the  drum  on  almost 
every  plantation  in  the  island.  The  drum,  indeed,  is  an 
instrument  to  which  the  country-folk  are  so  much  at- 
tached that  they  swear  by  it, —  Tambou  !  being  the  oath 
uttered  upon  all  ordinary  occasions  of  surprise  or  vexa- 
tion. But  the  instrument  is  quite  as  often  called  ka,  be- 
cause made  out  of  a  quarter-barrel,  or  quart, —  in  the 
patois  "  ka."  Both  ends  of  the  barrel  having  been  re- 
movedr  a  wet  hide,  well  wrapped  about  a  couple  of  hoops, 
is  driven  on,  and  in  drying  the  stretched  skin  obtains 
still  further  tension.  The  other  end  of  the  ka  is  always 
left  open.  Across  the  face  of  the  skin  a  string  is  tightly 
stretched,  to  which  are  attached,  at  intervals  of  about  an 
inch  apart,  very  short  thin  fragments  of  bamboo  or  cut 
feather  stems.  These  lend  a  certain  vibration  to  the  tones. 

In  the  time  of  Pere  Labat  the  negro  drums  had  a  some- 
what different  form.  There  were  then  two  kinds  of  drums 
—a  big  tamtam  and  a  little  one,  which  used  to  be  played 


144  Martinique  Sketches. 

together.  Both  consisted  of  skins  tightly  stretched  over 
one  end  of  a  wooden  cylinder,  or  a  section  of  hollow 
tree  trunk.  The  larger  was  from  three  to  four  feet  long 
with  a  diameter  of  fifteen  to  sixteen  inches;  the  smaller, 
called  baboula*  was  of  the  same  length,  but  only  eight 
or  nine  inches  in  diameter.  Pere  Labat  also  speaks,  in 
his  West  Indian  travels,  of  another  musical  instrument, 
very  popular  among  the  Martinique  slaves  of  his  time — 
"  a  sort  of  guitar  "  made  out  of  a  half-calabash  or  cou'i, 
covered  with  some  kind  of  skin.  It  had  four  strings  of 
silk  or  catgut,  and  a  very  long  neck.  The  tradition  of 
this  African  instrument  is  said  to  survive  in  the  modern 
" banza"  (banza  neg  Guinee]. 

The  skilful  player  (pel  tambouye)  straddles  his  ka  strip- 
ped to  the  waist,  and  plays  upon  it  with  the  finger-tips 
of  both  hands  simultaneously, — taking  care  that  the  vi- 
brating string  occupies  a  horizontal  position.  Occasion- 
ally the  heel  of  the  naked  foot  is  pressed  lightly  or  vig- 
orously against  the  skin,  so  as  to  produce  changes  of 
tone.  This  is  called  "  giving  heel  "  to  the  drum — baill 
y  talon.  Meanwhile  a  boy  keeps  striking  the  drum  at 
the  uncovered  end  with  a  stick,  so  as  to  produce  a  dry 
clattering  accompaniment.  The  sound  of  the  drum  it- 
self, well  played,  has  a  wild  power  that  makes  and  mas- 
ters all  the  excitement  of  the  dance — a  complicated  dou- 
ble roll,  with  a  peculiar  billowy  rising  and  falling.  The 
Creole  onomatopes,  Vlip-Vlib-Vlib-Vlip,  do  not  fully  render 
the  roll ; — for  each  Vlip  or  Ulib  stands  really  for  a  series 
of  sounds  too  rapidly  filliped  out  to  be  imitated  by 
articulate  speech.  The  tapping  of  a  ka  can  be  heard  at 
surprising  distances;  and  experienced  players  often  play 

*  Moreau  de  Saint-Mery  writes,  describing  the  drums  of  the  negroes 
of  Saint  Domingue:  "  Le  plus  court  de  ces  tambours  est  nomme 
Bamboula,  attendu  qu'il  est  forme  quelquefois  d'un  tres-gros  bam- 
bou." — "Description  de  la  partie  francaise  de  Saint  Domingue," 
vol.  i.,  p.  44. 


La  Grande  Anse.  145 

for  hours  at  a  time  without  exhibiting  wearisomeness,  or 
in  the  least  diminishing  the  volume  of  sound  produced. 

It  seems  there  are  many  ways  of  playing — different 
measures  familiar  to  all  these  colored  people,  but  not 
easily  distinguished  by  anybody  else  ;  and  there  are  great 
matches  sometimes  between  celebrated  tambouyL  The 
same  commande  whose  portrait  I  took  while  playing  told 
me  that  he  once  figured  in  a  contest  of  this  kind,  his 
rival  being  a  drummer  from  the  neighboring  burgh  of 
Marigot.  .  .  .  "  Ate,  ate,  ya'ie  !  mon  che  ! — y  fat  tambou-a 
pale!"  said  the  cornmande,  describing  the  execution  of 
his  antagonist; — "  my  dear,  he  just  made  that  drum  talk  ! 
I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  beaten  for  sure ;  I  was  trem- 
bling all  the  time — aie,  yaie-ydie !  Then  he  got  off  that  ka. 
I  mounted  it ;  I  thought  a  moment ;  then  I  struck  up  the 
'River-of-the-Lizard,' — mais,  mon  che,  yon  larivie-L'eza  toutt 
pi! — such  a  River-of-the-Lizard,  ah!  just  perfectly  pure! 
I  gave  heel  to  that  ka;  I  worried  that  ka;  —  I  made  it 
mad; — I  made  it  crazy ;— I  made  it  talk ; — I  won  !" 

During  some  dances  a  sort  of  chant  accompanies  the 
music — a  long  sonorous  cry,  uttered  at  intervals  of  seven 
or  eight  seconds,  which  perfectly  times  a  particular  meas- 
ure in  the  drum  roll.  It  may  be  the  burden  of  a  song, 
or  a  mere  improvisation  : 

"Oh!  yoie-yole!" 

(Drum  roll.) 
"  Oh!  missie-a!" 

(Drum  roll.) 
"Y  bel  tambouye!" 

(Drum  roll.) 
"Aie,  ya,  yaie!" 

(Drum  roll.) 
"Joli  tambouye!" 

(Drum  roll.) 
"  Chauffe  tambou-a!" 

(Drum  roll.) 
"Gene  tambou-a!" 

(Drum  roll.) 
"  Craze  tambou-a!"  etc.,  etc. 


146  Martinique  Sketches. 

.  .  .  The  crieur,  or  chanter,  is  also  the  leader  of  the 
dance.  The  caleinda  is  danced  by  men  only,  all  stripped 
to  the  waist,  and  twirling  heavy  sticks  in  a  mock  fight. 
Sometimes,  however — especially  at  the  great  village  gath- 
erings, when  the  blood  becomes  overheated  by  tafia — 
the  mock  fight  may  become  a  real  one  ;  and  then  even 
cutlasses  are  brought  into  play. 

But  in  the  old  days,  those  improvisations  which  gave 
one  form  of  dance  its  name,  bele  (from  the  French  bel  air), 
were  often  remarkable  rhymeless  poems,  uttered  with 
natural  simple  emotion,  and  full  of  picturesque  imagery. 
I  cite  part  of  one,  taken  down  from  the  dictation  of  a 
common  field-hand  near  Fort-de-France.  I  offer  a  few 
lines  of  the  Creole  first,  to  indicate  the  form  of  the  improv- 
isation. There  is  a  dancing  pause  at  the  end  of  each  line 
during  the  performance  : 

Toutt  fois  lanmou  vini  lacase  moin 

Pou  pale  moin,  moin  ka  reponne: 

"  Khe  moin  deja  place." 

Moin  ka  crie,  "Secou!  les  voisinages!" 

Moin  ka  crie,  "Secou!  la  gade  royale!" 

Moin  ka  crie,  "Secou!  la  gendamerie! 

Lanmou  pouend  yon  poigna  pou  poignade  moin!" 

The  best  part  of  the  composition,  which  is  quite  long, 
might  be  rendered  as  follows  : 

Each  time  that  Love  comes  to  my  cabin 
To  speak  to  me  of  love,  I  make  answer, 
"  My  heart  is  already  placed." 
I  cry  out,  "  Help,  neighbors!  help!" 
I  cry  out,  "  Help,  la   Garde  Royale!" 
I  cry  out,  "  Help,  help,  gendarmes! 
Love  takes  a  poniard  to  stab  me; 
How  can  Love  have  a  heart  so  hard 
To  thus  rob  me  of  my  health!" 
When  the  officer  of  police  comes  to  me 
To  hear  me  tell  him  the  truth, 
To  have  him  arrest  my  Love; — 


MANNER  OF   FLAYING   THE  KA. 


La  Grande  Anse.  147 

When  I  see  the  Garde  Royale 

Coming  to  arrest  my  sweet  heart, 

I  fall  down  at  the  feet  of  the  Garde  Royale, — 

I  pray  for  mercy  and  forgiveness. 

"Arrest  me  instead,  but  let  my  dear  Love  go!" 

How,  alas!  with  this  tender  heart  of  mine, 

Can  I  bear  to  see  such  an  arrest  made! 

No,  no!     I  would  rather  die! 

Dost  not  remember,  when  our  pillows  lay  close  together, 

How  we  told  each  to  the  other  all  that  our  hearts  thought?  .  .  .  etc. 

The  stars  were  all  out  when  I  bid  my  host  good-bye  ; — 
he  sent  his  black  servant  along  with  me  to  carry  a  lan- 
tern and  keep  a  sharp  watch  for  snakes  along  the  mount- 
ain road. 

IX. 

.  .  .  ASSUREDLY  the  city  of  St.  Pierre  never  could 
have  seemed  more  quaintly  beautiful  than  as  I  saw  it  on 
the  evening  of  my  return,  while  the  shadows  were  reach- 
ing their  longest,  and  sea  and  sky  were  turning  lilac. 
Palm-heads  were  trembling  and  masts  swaying  slowly 
against  an  enormous  orange  sunset, — yet  the  beauty  of 
the  sight  did  not  touch  me !  The  deep  level  and  lumi- 
nous flood  of  the  bay  seemed  to  me  for  the  first  time 
a  dead  water ; — I  found  myself  wondering  whether  it 
could  form  a  part  of  that  living  tide  by  which  I  had  been 
dwelling,  full  of  foam-lightnings  and  perpetual  thunder. 
I  wondered  whether  the  air  about  me — heavy  and  hot 
and  full  of  faint  leafy  smells  —  could  ever  have  been 
touched  by  the  vast  pure  sweet  breath  of  the  wind  from 
the  sunrising.  And  I  became  conscious  of  a  profound, 
unreasoning,  absurd  regret  for  the  somnolent  little  black 
village  of  that  bare  east  coast,  —  where  there  are  no 
woods,  no  ships,  no  sunsets,  .  .  .  only  the  ocean  roaring 
forever  over  its  beach  of  black  sand. 


UN    REVENANT. 
I. 

HE  who  first  gave  to  Martinique  its  poetical  name, 
Le  Pays  des  Revenants,  thought  of  his  wonderful  island 
only  as  "  The  Country  of  Comers-back,"  where  Nature's 
unspeakable  spell  bewitches  wandering  souls  like  the 
caress  of  a  Circe,— never  as  the  Land  of  Ghosts.  Yet 
either  translation  of  the  name  holds  equal  truth  :  a  land 
of  ghosts  it  is,  this  marvellous  Martinique  !  Almost  ev- 
ery plantation  has  its  familiar  spirits, — its  phantoms  : 
some  may  be  unknown  beyond  the  particular  district  in 
which  fancy  first  gave  them  being;  — but  some  belong  to 
popular  song  and  story.— to  the  imaginative  life  of  the 
whole  people.  Almost  every  promontory  and  peak,  ev- 
ery village  and  valley  along  the  coast,  has  its  special 
folk-lore,  its  particular  tradition.  The  legend  of  Tho- 
masseau  of  Perinnelle,  whose  body  was  taken  out  of  the 
coffin  and  carried  away  by  the  devil  through  a  certain 
window  of  the  plantation-house,  which  cannot  be  closed 
up  by  human  power  ; — the  Demarche  legend  of  the  spec- 
tral horseman  who  rides  up  the  hill  on  bright  hot  days 
to  seek  a  friend  buried  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago ; — 
the  legend  of  the  Habitation  Dillon,  whose  proprietor  was 
one  night  mysteriously  summoned  from  a  banquet  to  dis- 
appear forever;— the  legend  of  1'Abbe  Piot,  who  cursed 
the  sea  with  the  curse  of  perpetual  unrest ; — the  legend 
of  Aimee  Derivry  of  Robert,  captured  by  Barbary  pi- 
rates, and  sold  to  become  a  Sultana-Valide — (she  never 


Un  Revenant.  149 

existed,  though  you  can  find  an  alleged  portrait  in  M. 
Sidney  Daney's  history  of  Martinique)  :  these  and  many 
similar  tales  might  be  told  to  you  even  on  a  journey 
from  St.  Pierre  to  Fort-de-France,  or  from  Lamentin  to 
La  Trinite,  according  as  a  rising  of  some  peak  into  view, 
or  the  sudden  opening  of  an  anse  before  the  vessel's  ap- 
proach, recalls  them  to  a  Creole  companion. 

And  new  legends  are  even  now  being  made  ;  for  in 
this  remote  colony,  to  which  white  immigration  has  long 
ceased, — a  country  so  mountainous  that  people  are  born 
and  buried  in  the  same  valley  without  ever  seeing  towns 
but  a  few  hours'  journey  beyond  their  native  hills,  and 
that  distinct  racial  types  are  forming  within  three  leagues 
of  each  other, — the  memory  of  an  event  or  of  a  name 
which  has  had  influence  enough  to  send  one  echo  through 
all  the  forty-nine  miles  of  peaks  and  craters  is  apt  to 
create  legend  within  a  single  generation.  Nowhere  in 
the  world,  perhaps,  is  popular  imagination  more  oddly 
naive  and  superstitious ;  nowhere  are  facts  more  readily 
exaggerated  or  distorted  into  unrecognizability ;  and  the 
forms  of  any  legend  thus  originated  become  further- 
more specialized  in  each  separate  locality  where  it  ob- 
tains a  habitat.  On  tracing  back  such  a  legend  or  tra- 
dition to  its  primal  source,  one  feels  amazed  at  the 
variety  of  the  metamorphoses  which  the  simplest  fact 
may  rapidly  assume  in  the  childish  fancy  of  this  people. 

I  was  first  incited  to  make  an  effort  in  this  direction 
by  hearing  the  remarkable  story  of  "  Missie  Bon."  No 
legendary  expression  is  more  wide-spread  throughout  the 
country  than  temps  coudvent  Missie  Bon  (in  the  time  of 
the  big  wind  of  Monsieur  Bon).  Whenever  a  hurricane 
threatens,  you  will  hear  colored  folks  expressing  the 
hope  that  it  may  not  be  like  the  coudvent  Missie  Bon. 
And  some  years  ago,  in  all  the  Creole  police-courts,  old 
colored  witnesses  who  could  not  tell  their  age  would  in- 
variably try  to  give  the  magistrate  some  idea  of  it  by 


150  Martinique  Sketches. 

referring  to  the  never-to-be-forgotten  temps  coudvent 
Missie  Bon. 

.  .  .  "  Temps  coudvent  Missie  Bon,  mom  te  ka  tete  encb"  (I 
was  a  child  at  the  breast  in  the  time  of  the  big  wind  of 
Missie  Bon)  ;  or  "Temps  coudvent  Missie  Bon,  moin  te  toutt 
piti  manmaille, — moin  ka  souvini  y  pouend  ca'ie  manman 
moin  pbte  alle"  (I  was  a  very,  very  little  child  in  the 
time  of  the  big  wind  of  Missie  Bon, — but  I  remember  it 
blew  mamma's  cabin  away.)  The  magistrates  of  those 
days  knew  the  exact  date  of  the  coudvent. 

But  all  I  could  learn  about  Missie  Bon  among  the 
country-folk  was  this  :  Missie  Bon  used  to  be  a  great 
slave-owner  and  a  cruel  master.  He  was  a  very  wicked 
man.  And  he  treated  his  slaves  so  terribly  that  at  last  the 
Good-God  (Bon-Die]  one  day  sent  a  great  wind  which  blew 
away  Missie  Bon  and  Missie  Bon's  house  and  everybody 
in  it,  so  that  nothing  was  ever  heard  of  them  again. 

It  was  not  without  considerable  research  that  I  suc- 
ceeded at  last  in  finding  some  one  able  to  give  me  the 
true  facts  in  the  case  of  Monsieur  Bon.  My  informant 
was  a  charming  old  gentleman,  who  represents  a  New 
York  company  in  the  city  of  St.  Pierre,  and  who  takes 
more  interest  in  the  history  of  his  native  island  than  Cre- 
oles usually  do.  He  laughed  at  the  legend  I  had  found, 
but  informed  me  that  I  could  trace  it,  with  slight  varia- 
tions, through  nearly  every  canton  of  Martinique. 

"  And  now,"  he  continued,  "  I  can  tell  you  the  real 
history  of  '  Missie  Bon,' — for  he  was  an  old  friend  of  my 
grandfather ;  and  my  grandfather  related  it  to  me. 

"  It  may  have  been  in  1809 — I  can  give  you  the  exact 
date  by  reference  to  some  old  papers  if  necessary  - 
Monsieur  Bon  was  Collector  of  Customs  at  St.  Pierre  : 
and  my  grandfather  was  doing  business  in  the  Grande 
Rue.  A  certain  captain,  whose  vessel  had  been  con- 
signed to  my  grandfather,  invited  him  and  the  collector 


Un  Revenant.  1 5 1 

to  breakfast  in  his  cabin.  My  grandfather  was  so  busy 
he  could  not  accept  the  invitation; — but  Monsieur  Bon 
went  with  the  captain  on  board  the  bark. . 

..."  It  was  a  morning  like  this ;  the  sea  was  just  as 
blue  and  the  sky  as  clear.  All  of  a  sudden,  while  they 
were  at  breakfast,  the  sea  began  to  break  heavily  with- 
out a  wind,  and  clouds  came  up,  with  every  sign  of  a 
hurricane.  The  captain  was  obliged  to  sacrifice  his 
anchor;  there  was  no  time  to  land  his  guest :  he  hoisted 
a  little  jib  and  top-gallant,  and  made  for  open  water,  tak- 
ing Monsieur  Bon  with  him.  Then  the  hurricane  came; 
and  from  that  day  to  this  nothing  has  ever  been  heard 
of  the  bark  nor  of  the  captain  nor  of  Monsieur  Bon."* 

"  But  did  Monsieur  Bon  ever  do  anything  to  deserve 
the  reputation  he  has  left  among  the  people  ?"  I  asked. 

"Ah!  le  pauvre  vieux  corps !  ...  A  kind  old  soul  who 
never  uttered  a  harsh  word  to  human  being; — timid, — • 
good-natured,  —  old-fashioned  even  for  those  old-fash- 
ioned days.  .  .  .  Never  had  a  slave  in  his  life !" 


II. 

THE  legend  of  "  Missie  Bon  "  had  prepared  me  to 
hear  without  surprise  the  details  of  a  still  more  singular 

*  What  is  known  in  the  West  Indies  as  a  hurricane  is  happily  rare; 
it  blows  .with  the  force  of  a  cyclone,  but  not  always  circularly ;  it 
may  come  from  one  direction,  and  strengthen  gradually  for  days 
until  its  highest  velocity  and  destructive  force  are  reached.  One  in 
the  time  of  Pere  Labat  blew  away  the  walls  of  a  fort; — that  of  1780 
destroyed  the  lives  of  twenty-two  thousand  people  in  four  islands : 
Martinique,  Saint  Lucia,  St.  Vincent,  and  Barbadoes. 

Before  the  approach  of  such  a  visitation  animals  manifest  the  same 
signs  of  terror  they  display  prior  to  an  earthquake.  Cattle  assemble 
together,  stamp,  and  roar;  sea-birds  fly  to  the  interior;  fowl  seek  the 
nearest  crevice  they  can  hide  in.  Then,  while  the  sky  is  yet  clear, 
begins  the  breaking  of  the  sea;  then  darkness  comes,  and  after  it  the 
wind. 


152  Martinique  Sketches. 

tradition, —  that  of  Father  Labat.  ...  I  was  returning 
from  a  mountain  ramble  with  my  guide,  by  way  of  the 
Ajoupa-Bouillon  road  ; — the  sun  had  gone  down  ;  there 
remained  only  a  blood-red  glow  in  the  west,  against  which 
the  silhouettes  of  the  hills  took  a  velvety  blackness  in- 
describably soft;  and  stars  were  beginning  to  twinkle 
out  everywhere  through  the  violet.  Suddenly  I  noticed 
on  the  flank  of  a  neighboring  morne  —  which  I  remem- 
bered by  day  as  an  apparently  uninhabitable  wilderness 
of  bamboos,  tree-ferns,  and  balisiers — a  swiftly  moving 
point  of  yellow  light.  My  guide  had  observed  it  simul- 
taneously ; — he  crossed  himself,  and  exclaimed  : 

" Moin  ka  com  c*est  fanal  Pe  Labatt  Jn  (I  believe  it  is 
the  lantern  of  Pere  Labat.) 

"  Does  he  live  there  ?"  I  innocently  inquired. 

"  Live  there  ? — why  he  has  been  dead  hundreds  of 
years  !  .  .  .  Ouill 7  you  never  heard  of  Pe  Labatt  ?"  .  .  . 

"  Not  the  same  who  wrote  a  book  about  Martinique  ?" 

"  Yes, — himself.  .  .  .  They  say  he  comes  back  at  night. 
Ask  mother  about  him ; — she  knows."  .  .  . 

...  I  questioned  old  Thereza  as  soon  as  we  reached 
home ;  and  she  told  me  all  she  knew  about  "  Pe  Labatt." 
I  found  that  the  father  had  left  a  reputation  far  more 
wide-spread  than  the  recollection  of  "  Missie  Bon," — that 
his  memory  had  created,  in  fact,  the  most  impressive  le- 
gend in  all  Martinique  folk-lore. 

"Whether  you  really  saw  Pe  Labatt's  lantern,"  said 
old  Thereza,  "  I  do  not  know ; — there  are  a  great  many 
queer  lights  to  be  seen  after  nightfall  among  these  mornes. 
Some  are  zombi-fires ;  and  some  are  lanterns  carried  by 
living  men;  and  some* are  lights  burning  in  ajoupas  so 
high  up  that  you  can  only  see  a  gleam  coming  through 
the  trees  now  and  then.  It  is  not  everybody  who  sees 
the  lantern  of  Pe  Labatt;  and  it  is  not  good -luck  to 
see  it. 

"  Pe  Labatt  was  a  priest  who  lived  here  hundreds  of 


Un  Revenant.  153 

years  ago ;  and  he  wrote  a  book  about  what  he  saw. 
He  was  the  first  person  to  introduce  slavery  into  Marti- 
nique; and  it  is  thought  that  is  why  he  comes  back  at 
night.  It  is  his  penance  for  having  established  slavery 
here. 

"They  used  to  say,  before  1848,  that  when  slavery 
should  be  abolished,  Pe  Labatt's  light  would  not  be  seen 
any  more.  But  I  can  remember  very  well  when  slavery 
was  abolished  ;  and  I  saw  the  light  many  a  time  after. 
It  used  to  move  up  the  Morne  d'Orange  every  clear 
night ; — I  could  see  it  very  well  from  my  window  when 
I  lived  in  St.  Pierre.  You  knew  it  was  Pe  Labatt,  be- 
cause the  light  passed  up  places  where  no  man  could 
walk.  But  since  the  statue  of  Notre  Dame  de  la  Garde 
was  placed  on  the  Morne  d'Orange,  people  tell  me  that 
the  light  is  not  seen  there  any  more. 

"  But  it  is  seen  elsewhere  ;  and  it  is  not  good-luck  to 
see  it.  Everybody  is  afraid  of  seeing  it.  ...  And  moth- 
ers tell  their  children,  when  the  little  ones  are  naughty  : 
lMi  !  moin  ke  fai  Pe  Labatt  vini  pouend  ou, — out!1  (I 
will  make  Pe  Labatt  come  and  take  you  away.)"  .  .  . 

What  old  Theresa  stated  regarding  the  establishment 
of  slavery  in  Martinique  by  Pere  Labat,  I  knew  required 
no  investigation, — inasmuch  as  slavery  was  a  flourishing 
institution  in  the  time  of  Pere  Dutertre,  another  Domini- 
can missionary  and  historian,  who  wrote  his  book, — a 
queer-  book  in  old  French,1* — before  Labat  was  born. 
But  it  did  not  take  me  long  to  find  out  that  such  was  the 
general  belief  about  Pere  Labat's  sin  and  penance,  and 
to  ascertain  that  his  name  is  indeed  used  to  frighten 
naughty  children.  Eh  !  ti  manmaille-la,  moin  ke  fai  Pe 
Labatt  vini  pouend  ou  ! — is  an  exclamation  often  heard 

*  "  Histoire  Generate  des  Antilles  .  .  .  habites  par  les  Fran9ais." 
Par  le  R.  P.  Du  Tertre,  de  1'Ordre  des  Freres  Prescheurs.  Paris : 
1661-71.  4  vols.  (with  illustrations)  in  4to. 


154  Martinique  Sketches. 

in  the  vicinity  of  ajoupas  just  about  the  hour  when  all 
good  little  children  ought  to  be  in  bed  and  asleep. 

.  .  .  The  first  variation  of  the  legend  I  heard  was  on  a 
plantation  in  the  neighborhood  of  Ajoupa- Bouillon. 
There  I  was  informed  that  Pere  Labat  had  come  to  his 
death  by  the  bite  of  a  snake, — the  hugest  snake  that 
ever  was  seen  in  Martinique.  Pere  Labat  had  believed 
it  possible  to  exterminate  the  fer-de-lance,  and  had  adopt- 
ed extraordinary  measures  for  its  destruction.  On  receiv- 
ing his  death-wound  he  exclaimed,  i;  C'est  pe  toutt  sepent 
qui  te  ka  mode  moin  "  (It  is  the  Father  of  all  Snakes  that 
has  bitten  me) ;  and  he  vowed  that  he  would  come  back 
to  destroy  the  brood,  and  would  haunt  the  island  until 
there  should  be  not  one  snake  left.  And  the  light  that 
moves  about  the  peaks  at  night  is  the  lantern  of  Pere 
Labat  still  hunting  for  snakes. 

"  Ou  pa  pe  suive  ti  limie-la  piess  /"  continued  my  in- 
formant. "  You  cannot  follow  that  little  light  at  all  ;— 
when  you  first  see  it,  it  is  perhaps  only  a  kilometre  away  ; 
the  next  moment  it  is  two,  three,  or  four  kilometres 
away." 

I  was  also  told  that  the  light  is  frequently  seen  near 
Grande  Anse,  on  the  other  side  of  the  island, — and  on 
the  heights  of  La  Caravelle,  the  long  fantastic  promon- 
tory that  reaches  three  leagues  into  the  sea  south  of  the 
harbor  of  La  Trinite.*  And  on  my  return  to  St.  Pierre  I 


*  One  of  the  lights  seen  on  the  Caravelle  was  certainly  carried  by 
a  cattle-thief, — a  colossal  negro  who  had  the  reputation  of  being  a 
sorcerer, — a  quimboiseur.  The  greater  part  of  the  mountainous  land 
forming  La  Caravelle  promontory  was  at  that  time  the  property  of  a 
Monsieur  Eustache,  who  used  it  merely  for  cattle-raising  purposes. 
He  allowed  his  animals  to  run  wild  in  the  hills ;  they  multiplied  ex- 
ceedingly, and  became  very  savage.  Notwithstanding  their  feroc- 
ity, however,  large  numbers  of  them  were  driven  away  at  night,  and 
secretly  slaughtered  or  sold,  by  somebody  who  used  to  practise  the 
art  of  cattle-stealing  with  a  lantern,  and  evidently  without  aid.  A 


Un  Revenant.  155 

found  a  totally  different  version  of  the  legend ; — my  in- 
formant being  one  Man  in -Robert,  a  kind  old  soul  who 
kept  a  little  boutique-lapacotte  (a  little  booth  where  cooked 
food  is  sold)  near  the  precipitous  Street  of  the  Friend- 
ships. 

.  .  .  "Ah!  Pe  Labatt,  oiii!"  she  exclaimed,  at  my  first 
question, — "  Pe  Labatt  was  a  good  priest  who  lived  here 
very  long  ago.  And  they  did  him  a  great  wrong  here  ; — 
they  gave  him  a  wicked  coup  d'langue  (tongue  wound) ; 
and  the  hurt  given  by  an  evil  tongue  is  worse  than  a  ser- 
pent's bite.  They  lied  about  him ;  they  slandered  him 
until  they  got  him  sent  away  from  the  country.  But  be- 
fore the  Government  'embarked'  him,  when  he  got  to 
that  quay,  he  took  off  his  shoe  and  he  shook  the  dust  of 
his  shoe  upon  that  quay,  and  he  said  :  '  I  curse  you,  O 
Martinique  ! — I  curse  you  !  There  will  be  food  for  noth- 
ing, and  your  people  will  not  even  be  able  to  buy  it ! 
There  will  be  clothing  material  for  nothing,  and  your 
people  will  not  be  able  to  get  so  much  as  one  dress  ! 
And  the  children  will  beat  their  mothers !  .  .  .  You  ban- 
ish me  ; — but  I  will  come  back  again.'  "  * 

watch  was  set,  and  the  thief  arrested.  Before  the  magistrate  he 
displayed  extraordinary  assurance,  asserting  that  he  had  never  stolen 
from  a  poor'  man — he  had  stolen  only  from  M.  Eustache  who  could 
not  count  his  own  cattle — yon  richard,  mon  die!  ' '  How  many  cows 
did  you  steal  from  him?"  asked  the  magistrate.  "  Ess  main  pi 
save?-^moin  tt pouend  yon  savane  toutt  pleine"  replied  the  prisoner. 
(How  can  I  tell? — I  took  a  whole  savanna-full.)  .  .  .  Condemned 
on  the  strength  of  his  own  confession,  he  was  taken  to  jail.  ''''Main 
pa  /'/  reti  la  geolc, "  he  observed.  (I  shall  not  remain  in  prison.) 
They  put  him  in  irons,  but  on  the  following  morning  the  irons  were 
found  lying  on  the  floor  of  the  cell,  and  the  prisoner  was  gone. 
He  was  never  seen  in  Martinique  again. 

*  Y  sucoue  souye  y  assous  quai-la; — y  ka  di:  "  Moin-ka  maudi  ou, 
Lanmatinique! — moin  ka  maudi  ou!  .  .  .  Ke  ni  mange  pou  engnien: 
ou  pa  ke  pe  menm  achete  y !  Ke  ni  touele  pou  engnien  :  ou  pa  ke 
pe  menm  achete  yon  robe  !  Epi  yche  ke  batt  manman.  .  .  .  Ou 
banni  moin ! — moin  ke  vini  enco !" 


156  Martinique  Sketches. 

"  And  then  what  happened,  Manm-Robert  ?" 
"Eh!  fouinq!  che,  all  that  Pe  Labatt  said  has  come 
true.  There  is  food  for  almost  nothing,  and  people  are 
starving  here  in  St.  Pierre ;  there  is  clothing  for  almost 
nothing,  and  poor  girls  cannot  earn  enough  to  buy  a 
dress.  The  pretty  printed  calicoes  (indiennes)  that  used 
to  be  two  francs  and  a  half  the  metre,  now  sell  at  twelve 
sous  the  metre  ;  but  nobody  has  any  money.  And  if  you 
read  our  papers,  —  Les  Colonies,  La  Defense  Coloniale, — 
you  will  find  that  there  are  sons  wicked  enough  to  beat 
their  mothers  :  out! yche  ka  batt  manman!  It  is  the  mal- 
ediction of  Pe  Labatt." 

This  was  all  that  Manm-Robert  could  tell  me.  Who 
had  related  the  story  to  her?  Her  mother.  Whence  had 
her  mother  obtained  it?  From  her  grandmother.  .  .  .  Sub- 
sequently I  found  many  persons  to  confirm  the  tradition 
of  the  curse, — precisely  as  Manm-Robert  had  related  it. 

Only  a  brief  while  after  this  little  interview  I  was  in- 
vited to  pass  an  afternoon  at  the  home  of  a  gentleman 
residing  upon  the  Morne  d'  Orange, — the  locality  sup- 
posed to  be  especially  haunted  by  Pere  Labat.  The 
house  of  Monsieur  M—  -  stands  on  the  side  of  the  hill, 
fully  five  hundred  feet  up,  and  in  a  grove  of  trees  :  an 
antiquated  dwelling,  with  foundations  massive  as  the 
walls  of  a  fortress,  and  huge  broad  balconies  of  stone. 
From  one  of  these  balconies  there  is  a  view  of  the  city, 
the  harbor,  and  Pelee,  which  I  believe  even  those  who 
have  seen  Naples  would  confess  to  be  one  of  the  fairest 
sights  in  the  world.  .  .  .  Towards  evening  I  obtained  a 
chance  to  ask  my  kind  host  some  questions  about  the 
legend  of  his  neighborhood. 

..."  Ever  since  I  was  a  child,"  observed  Monsieur 

M ,  "I  heard  it  said  that  Pere  Labat  haunted  this 

mountain,  and  I  often  saw  what  was  alleged  to  be  his 
light.  It  looked  very  much  like  a  lantern  swinging  in 


Un  Revenant.  157 

the  hand  of  some  one  climbing  the  hill.  A  queer  fact 
was  that  it  used  to  come  from  the  direction  of  Carbet, 
skirt  the  Morne  d'Orange  a  few  hundred  feet  above  the 
road,  and  then  move  up  the  face  of  what  seemed  a  sheer 
precipice.  Of  course  somebody  carried  that  light, — 
probably  a  negro ;  and  perhaps  the  cliff  is  not  so  inac- 
cessible as  it  looks  :  still,  we  could  never  discover  who 
the  individual  was,  nor  could  we  imagine  what  his  pur- 
pose might  have  been.  .  .  .  But  the  light  has  not  been 
seen  here  now  for  years." 


III. 

AND  who  was  Pere  Labat, — this  strange  priest  whose 
memory,  weirdly  disguised  by  legend,  thus  lingers  in  the 
oral  literature  of  the  colored  people  ?  Various  encyclo- 
paedias answer  the  question,  but  far  less  fully  and  less 
interestingly  .than  Dr.  Rufz,  the  Martinique  historian, 
whose  article  upon  him  in  the  Etudes  Statistiques  et  His- 
toriques  has  that  charm  of  sympathetic  comprehension 
by  which  a  master  -  biographer  sometimes  reveals  him- 
self a  sort  of  necromancer, — making  us  feel  a  vanished 
personality  with  the  power  of  a  living  presence.  Yet 
even  the  colorless  data  given  by  dictionaries  of  biogra- 
phy should  suffice  to  convince  most  readers  that  Jean- 
Baptiste  Labat  must  be  ranked  among  the  extraordinary 
men  of  his  century. 

Nearly  two  hundred  years  ago — 24th  August,  1693 — 
a  traveller  wearing  the  white  habit  of  the  Dominican 
order,  partly  covered  by  a  black  camlet  overcoat,  entered 
the  city  of  Rochelle.  He  was  very  tall  and  robust,  with 
one  of  those  faces,  at  once  grave  and  keen,  which  be- 
speak great  energy  and  quick  discernment.  This  was 
the  Pere  Labat,  a  native  of  Paris,  then  in  his*  thirtieth 
year.  Half  priest,  half  layman,  one  might  have  been 


158  Martinique  Sketches. 

tempted  to  surmise  from  his  attire ;  and  such  a  judg- 
ment would  not  have  been  unjust.  Labat's  character 
was  too  large  for  his  calling, — expanded  naturally  be- 
yond the  fixed  limits  of  the  ecclesiastical  life ;  and 
throughout  the  whole  active  part  of  his  strange  career 
we  find  in  him  this  dual  character  of  layman  and  monk. 
He  had  come  to  Rochelle  to  take  passage  for  Marti- 
nique. Previously  he  had  been  professor  of  philosophy 
and  mathematics  at  Nancy.  While  watching  a  sunset 
one  evening  from  the  window  of  his  study,  some  one 
placed  in  his  hands  a  circular  issued  by  the  Dominicans 
of  the  French  West  Indies,  calling  for  volunteers.  Death 
had  made  many  wide  gaps  in  their  ranks ;  and  various 
misfortunes  had  reduced  their  finances  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  ruin  threatened  all  their  West  Indian  establish- 
ments. Labat,  with  the  quick  decision  of  a  mind  suf- 
fering from  the  restraints  of  a  life  too  narrow  for  it,  had 
at  once  resigned  his  professorship,  and  engaged  himself 
for  the  missions. 

.  .  .  In  those  days,  communication  with  the  West  In- 
dies was  slow,  irregular,  and  difficult.  Labat  had  to  wait 
at  Rochelle  six  whole  months  for  a  ship.  In  the  con- 
vent at  Rochelle,  where  he  stayed,  there  were  others 
waiting  for  the  same  chance/ — including  several  Jesuits 
and  Capuchins  as  well  as  Dominicans.  These  unani- 
mously elected  him  their  leader, — a  significant  fact  con- 
sidering the  mutual  jealousy  of  the  various  religious  or- 
ders of  that  period.  There  was  something  in  the  energy 
and  frankness  of  Labat's  character  which  seems  to  have 
naturally  gained  him  the  confidence  and  ready  submis- 
sion of  others. 

.  .  .  They  sailed  in  November ;  and  Labat  still  found 
himself  in  the  position  of  a  chief  on  board.  His  account 
of  the  voyage  is  amusing ; — in  almost  everything  except 
practical  navigation,  he  would  appear  to  have  regulated 
the  life  of  passengers  and  crew.  He  taught  the  captain 


Un  Revenant.  159 

mathematics ;  and  invented  amusements  of  all  kinds  to 
relieve  the  monotony  of  a  two  months'  voyage. 

...  As  the  ship  approached  Martinique  from  the 
north,  Labat  first  beheld  the  very  grimmest  part  of  the 
lofty  coast, — the  region  of  Macouba ;  and  the  impression 
it  made  upon  him  was  not  pleasing.  "  The  island,"  he 
writes,  "  appeared  to  me  all  one  frightful  mountain,  bro- 
ken everywhere  by  precipices  :  nothing  about  it  pleased 
me  except  the  verdure  which  everywhere  met  the  eye, 
and  which  seemed  to  me  both  novel  and  agreeable,  con- 
sidering the  time  of  the  year." 

Almost  immediately  after  his  arrival  he  was  sent  by 
the  Superior  of  the  convent  to  Macouba,  for  acclima- 
tion ;  Macouba  then  being  considered  the  healthiest  part 
of  the  island.  Whoever  makes  the  journey  on  horse- 
back thither  from  St.  Pierre  to-day  can  testify  to  the 
exactitude  of  Labat's  delightful  narrative  of  the  trip. 
So  little  has  that  part  of  the  island  changed  since  two 
centuries  that  scarcely  a  line  of  the  father's  description 
would  need  correction  to  adopt  it  bodily  for  an  account 
of  a  ride  to  Macouba  in  1889. 

At  Macouba  everybody  welcomes  him,  pets  him, — 
finally  becomes  enthusiastic  about  him.  He  fascinates 
and  dominates  the  little  community  almost  at  first  sight. 
"There  is  an  inexpressible  charm,"  says  Rufz,  —  com- 
menting upon  this  portion  of  Labat's  narrative, — "  in  the 
novelty  of  relations  between  men :  no  one  has  yet  been 
offended,  no  envy  has  yet  been  excited ; — it  is  scarcely 
possible  even  to  guess  whence  that  ill-will  you  must 
sooner  or  later  provoke  is  going  to  come  from ; — there 
are  no  rivals ; — there  are  no  enemies.  You  are  every- 
body's friend ;  and  many  are  hoping  you  will  continue 
to  be  only  theirs.".  .  .  Labat  knew  how  to  take  legiti- 
mate advantage  of  this  good-will; — he  persuaded  his  ad- 
mirers to  rebuild  the  church  at  Macouba,  according  to 
designs  made  by  himself. 


160  Martinique  Sketches. 

At  Macouba,  however,  he  was  not  permitted  to  so- 
journ as  long  as  the  good  people  of  the  little  burgh 
would  have  deemed  even  reasonable :  he  had  shown  cer- 
tain aptitudes  which  made  his  presence  more  than  de- 
sirable at  Saint-Jacques,  the  great  plantation  of  the  order 
on  the  Capesterre,  or  Windward  coast.  It  was  in  debt 
for  700,000  pounds  of  sugar, — an  appalling  condition  in 
those  days, —  and  seemed  doomed  to  get  more  heavily 
in  debt  every  successive  season.  Labat  inspected  ev- 
erything, and  set  to  work  for  the  plantation,  not  merely 
as  general  director,  but  as  engineer,  architect,  machin- 
ist, inventor.  He  did  really  wonderful  things.  You  can 
see  them  for  yourself  if  you  ever  go  to  Martinique;  for 
the  old  Dominican  plantation — now  Government  proper- 
ty, and  leased  at  an  annual  rent  of  50,000  francs — re- 
mains one  of  the  most  valuable  in  the  colonies  because 
of  Labat's  work  upon  it.  The  watercourses  directed 
by  him  still  excite  the  admiration  of  modern  professors 
of  hydraulics;  the  mills  he  built  or  invented  are  still 
good; — the  treatise  he  wrote  on  sugar-making  remained 
for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  the  best  of  its  "kind,  and 
the  manual  of  French  planters.  In  less  than  two  years 
Labat  had  not  only  rescued  the  plantation  from  bank- 
ruptcy, but  had  made  it  rich ;  and  if  the  monks  deemed 
him  veritably  inspired,  the  test  of  time  throws  no  ridi- 
cule on  their  astonishment  at  the  capacities  of  the  man. 
.  .  .  Even  now  the  advice  he  formulated  as  far  back  as 
1720  —  about  secondary  cultures, — about  manufactories 
to  establish, — about  imports,  exports,  and  special  com- 
mercial methods — has  lost  little  of  its  value. 

Such  talents  could  not  fail  to  excite  wide-spread  ad- 
miration,— nor  to  win  for  him  a  reputation  in  the  col- 
onies beyond  precedent.  He  was  wanted  everywhere.  .  .  . 
Auger,  the  Governor  of  Guadeloupe,  sent  for  him  to  help 
the  colonists  in  fortifying  and  defending  the  island  against 
the  English  ;  and  we  find  the  missionary  quite  as  much 


Un  Revenant.  161 

at  home  in  this  new  role — building  bastions,  scarps,  coun- 
terscarps, ravelins,  etc. — as  he  seemed  to  be  upon  the 
plantation  of  Saint-Jacques.  We  find  him  even  taking 
part  in  an  engagement ; — himself  conducting  an  artillery 
duel, — loading,  pointing,  and  firing  no  less  than  twelve 
times  after  the  other  French  gurmers  had  been  killed  or 
driven  from  their  posts.  After  a  tremendous  English 
volley,  one  of  the  enemy  cries  out  to  him  in  French : 
"White  Father,  have  they  told?"  (Pere  Blanc,  ont-ils 
ported}  He  replies  only  after  returning  the  fire  with  a 
better-directed  aim,  and  then  repeats  the  mocking  ques- 
tion :  "  Have  they  told  ?"  "Yes,  they  have,"  confesses 
the  Englishman,  in  surprised  dismay ;  "  but  we  will  pay 
you  back  for  that !"  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Returning  to  Martinique  with  new  titles  to  dis- 
tinction, Labat  was  made  Superior  of  the  order  in  that 
island,  and  likewise  Vicar- Apostolic.  After  building  the 
Convent  of  the  Mouillage,  at  St.  Pierre,  and  many  other 
edifices,  he  undertook  that  series  of  voyages  in  the  in- 
terests of  the  Dominicans  whereof  the  narration  fills  six 
ample  volumes.  As  a  traveller  Pere  Labat  has  had  few 
rivals  in  his  own  field  ; — no  one,  indeed,  seems  to  have 
been  able  to  repeat  some  of  his  feats.  All  the  French 
and  several  of  the  English  colonies  were  not  merely  vis- 
ited by  him,  but  were  studied  in  their  every  geographical 
detail.  Travel  in  the  West  Indies  is  difficult  to  a  de- 
gree of  .which  strangers  have  little  idea;  but  in  the  time 
of  Pere  Labat  there  were  few  roads, — and  a  far  greater 
variety  of  obstacles.  I  do  not  believe  there  are  half  a 
dozen  whites  in  Martinique  who  thoroughly  know  their 
own  island, — who  have  even  travelled  upon  all  its  roads  ; 
but  Labat  knew  it  as  he  knew  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and 
travelled  where  roads  had  never  been  made.  Equally 
well  he  knew  Guadeloupe  and  other  islands ;  and  he 
learned  all  that  it  was  possible  to  learn  in  those  years 
about  the  productions  and  resources  of  the  other  colonies. 


1 62  Martinique  Sketches. 

He  travelled  with  the  fearlessness  and  examined  with 
the  thoroughness  of  a  Humboldt, — so  far  as  his  limited 
science  permitted :  had  he  possessed  the  knowledge  of 
modern  naturalists  and  geologists  he  would  probably 
have  left  little  for  others  to  discover  after  him.  Even  at 
the  present  time  West  Indian  travellers  are  glad  to  con- 
sult him  for  information. 

These  duties  involved  prodigious  physical  and  mental 
exertion,  in  a  climate  deadly  to  Europeans.  They  also 
involved  much  voyaging  in  waters  haunted  by  filibusters 
and  buccaneers.  But  nothing  appears  to  daunt  Labat. 
As  for  the  filibusters,  he  becomes  their  comrade  and  per- 
sonal friend ; — he  even  becomes  their  chaplain,  and  does 
not  scruple  to  make  excursions  with  them.  He  figures 
in  several  sea-fights ; — on  one  occasion  he  aids  in  the 
capture  of  two  English  vessels, — and  then  occupies  him- 
self in  making  the  prisoners,  among  whom  are  several 
ladies,  enjoy  the  event  like  a  holiday.  On  another  voy- 
age Labat's  vessel  is  captured  by  a  Spanish  ship.  At 
one  moment  sabres  are  raised  above  his  head,  and  load- 
ed muskets  levelled  at  his  breast ; — the  next,  every  Span- 
iard is  on  his  knees,  appalled  by  a  cross  that  Labat  holds 
before  the  eyes  of  the  captors, — the  cross  worn  by  offi- 
cers of  the  Inquisition, — the  terrible  symbol  of  the  Holy 
Office.  "  It  did  not  belong  to  me,"  he  says,  "  but  to 
one  of  our  brethren  who  had  left  it  by  accident  among 
my  effects."  He  seems  always  prepared  in  some  way 
to  meet  any  possible  emergency.  No  humble  and  timid 
monk  this  :  he  has  the  frame  and  temper  of  those  medi- 
aeval abbots  who  could  don  with  equal  indifference  the 
helmet  or  the  cowl.  He  is  apparently  even  more  of  a 
soldier  than  a  priest.  When  English  corsairs  attempt 
a  descent  on  the  Martinique  coast  at  Sainte-Marie  they 
find  Pere  Labat  waiting  for  them  with  all  the  negroes  of 
the  Saint-Jacques  plantation,  to  drive  them  back  to  their 
ships. 


Un  Revenant.  163 

For  other  dangers  he  exhibits  absolute  unconcern. 
He  studies  the  phenomena  of  hurricanes  with  almost 
pleasurable  interest,  while  his  comrades  on  the  ship  aban- 
don hope.  When  seized  with  yellow-fever,  then  known 
as  the  Siamese  Sickness  (mal  de  Siam),  he  refuses  to 
stay  in  bed  the  prescribed  time,  and  rises  to  say  his  mass. 
He  faints  at  the  altar;  yet  a  few  days  later  we  hear  of 
him  on  horseback  again,  travelling  over  the  mountains 
in  the  worst  and  hottest  season  of  the  year.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Labat  was  thirty  years  old  when  he  went  to  the 
Antilles; — he  was  only  forty-two  when  his  work  was  done. 
In  less  than  twelve  years  he  made  his  order  the  most 
powerful  and  wealthy  of  any  in  the  West  Indies, — lifted 
their  property  out  of  bankruptcy  to  rebuild  it  upon  a 
foundation  of  extraordinary  prosperity.  As  Rufz  ob- 
serves without  exaggeration,  the  career  of  Pere  Labat 
in  the  Antilles  seems  to  more  than  realize  the  antique 
legend  of  the  labors  of  Hercules.  Whithersoever  he 
went, — except  in  the  English  colonies, — his  passage  was 
memorialized  by  the  rising  of  churches,  convents,  and 
schools,— as  well  as  mills,  forts,  and  refineries.  Even 
cities  claim  him  as  their  founder.  The  solidity  of  his 
architectural  creations  is  no  less  remarkable  than  their 
excellence  of  design  ; — much  of  what  he  erected  still  re- 
mains ;  what  has  vanished  was  removed  by  human  agen- 
cy, and  not  by  decay;  and  when  the  old  Dominican 
church  at  St.  Pierre  had  to  be  pulled  down  to  make  room 
for  a  larger  edifice,  the  workmen  complained  that  the 
stones  could  not  be  separated, — that  the  walls  seemed 
single  masses  of  rock.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  more- 
over, that  he  largely  influenced  the  life  of  the  colonies 
during  those  years,  and  expanded  their  industrial  and 
commercial  capacities. 

He  was  sent  on  a  mission  to  Rome  after  these  things 
had  been  done,  and  never  returned  from  Europe.  There 
he  travelled  more  or  less  in  after-years ;  but  finally  set- 


164  Martinique  Sketches. 

tied  at  Paris,  where  he  prepared  and  published  the  vo- 
luminous narrative  of  his  own  voyages,  and  other  curious 
books  ; — manifesting  as  a  writer  the  same  tireless  energy 
he  had  shown  in  so  many  other  capacities.  He  does 
not,  however,  appear  to  have  been  happy.  Again  and 
again  he  prayed  to  be  sent  back  to  his  beloved  Antilles, 
and  for  some  unknown  cause  the  prayer  was  always  re- 
fused. To  such  a  character,  the  restraint  of  the  cloister 
must  have  proved  a  slow  agony ;  but  he  had  to  endure 
it  for  many  long  years.  He  died  at  Paris  in  1738,  aged 
seventy-five. 

...  It  was  inevitable  that  such  a  man  should  make 
bitter  enemies  :  his  preferences,  his  position,  his  activity, 
his  business  shrewdness,  his  necessary  self-assertion, 
must  have  created  secret  hate  and  jealousy  even  when 
open  malevolence  might  not  dare  to  show  itself.  And  to 
these  natural  results  of  personal  antagonism  or  opposi- 
tion were  afterwards  superadded  various  resentments  -r- 
irrational,  perhaps,  but  extremely  violent, — caused  by 
the  father's  cynical  frankness  as  a  writer.  He  spoke 
freely  about  the  family  origin  and  personal  failings  of 
various  colonists  considered  high  personages  in  their 
own  small  world ;  and  to  this  day  his  book  has  an  evil 
reputation  undeserved  in  those  old  Creole  communities, 
where  any  public  mention  of  a  family  scandal  is  never 
forgiven  or  forgotten.  .  .  .  But  probably  even  before  his 
work  appeared  it  had  been  secretly  resolved  that  he 
should  never  be  permitted  to  return  to  Martinique  or 
Guadeloupe  after  his  European  mission.  The  exact 
purpose  of  the  Government  in  this  policy  remains  a 
mystery, — whatever  ingenious  writers  may  have  alleged 
to  the  contrary.  We  only  know  that  M.  Adrien  Des- 
salles, — the  trustworthy  historian  of  Martinique, — while 
searching  among  the  old  Archives  de  la  Marine,  found 
there  a  ministerial  letter  to  the  Intendant  de  Vaucresson 
in  which  this  statement  occurs  : — 


Un  Revenant.  165 

.  .  .  "  Le  Pere  Labat  shall  never  be  suffered  to  return 
to  the  colonies,  whatever  efforts  he  may  make  to  obtain 
permission." 

IV. 

ONE  rises  from  the  perusal  of  the  "  Nouveau  Voyage 
aux  Isles  de  1'Amerique  "  with  a  feeling  approaching  re- 
gret; for  although  the  six  pursy  little  volumes  com- 
posing it— full  of  quaint  drawings,  plans,  and  odd  at- 
tempts at  topographical  maps — reveal  a  prolix  writer, 
Pere  Labat  is  always  able  to  interest.  He  reminds  you 
of  one  of  those  slow,  precise,  old-fashioned  conversation- 
alists who  measure  the  weight  of  every  word  and  nev- 
er leave  anything  to  the  imagination  of  the  audience, 
yet  who  invariably  reward  the  patience  of  their  listeners 
sooner  or  later  by  reflections  of  surprising  profundity  or 
theories  of  a  totally  novel  description.  But  what  par- 
ticularly impresses  the  reader  of  these  volumes  is  not  so 
much  the  recital  of  singular  incidents  and  facts  as  the 
revelation  of  the  author's  personality.  Reading  him, 
you  divine  a  character  of  enormous  force, — gifted  but 
unevenly  balanced ;  singularly  shrewd  in  worldly  affairs, 
and  surprisingly  credulous  in  other  respects ;  supersti- 
tious and  yet  cynical ;  unsympathetic  by  his  positivism, 
but  agreeable  through  natural  desire  to  give  pleasure ; 
just  by  nature,  yet  capable  of  merciless  severity ;  pro- 
foundly devout,  but  withal  tolerant  for  his  calling  and  his 
time..  He  is  sufficiently  free  from  petty  bigotry  to  make 
fun  of  the  scruples  of  his  brethren  in  the  matter  of  em- 
ploying heretics  ;  and  his  account  of  the  manner  in  which 
he  secured  the  services  of  a  first-class  refiner  for  the 
Martinique  plantation  at  the  Fond  Saint-Jacques  is  not 
the  least  amusing  page  in  the  book.  He  writes  :  "  The 
religious  who  had  been  appointed  Superior  in  Guade- 
loupe wrote  me  that  he  would  find  it  difficult  to  employ 
this  refiner  because  the  man  was  a  Luthera.n.  This 


1 66  Martinique  Sketches. 

scruple  gave  me  pleasure,  as  I  had  long  wanted  to  have 
him  upon  our  plantation  in  the  Fond  Saint-Jacques,  but 
did  not  know  how  I  would  be  able  to  manage  it.  I 
wrote  to  the  Superior  at  once  that  all  he  had  to  do  was 
to  send  the  man  to  me,  because  it  was  a  matter  of  indif- 
ference to  me  whether  the  sugar  he  might  make  were 
Catholic  or  Lutheran  sugar,  provided  it  were  very 
white."*  He  displays  equal  frankness  in  confessing  an 
error  or  a  discomfiture.  Pie  acknowledges  that  while 
Professor  of  Mathematics  and  Philosophy,  he  used  to 
teach  that  there  were  no  tides  in  the  tropics ;  and  in  a 
discussion  as  to  whether  the  diablotin  (a  now  almost  ex- 
tinct species  of  West  Indian  nocturnal  bird)  were  fish  or 
flesh,  and  might  or  might  not  be  eaten  in  Lent,  he  tells 
us  that  he  was  fairly  worsted, — (although  he  could  cite 
the  celebrated  myth  of  the  "barnacle-geese  "  as  a  "fact" 
in  justification  of  one's  right  to  doubt  the  nature  of  di- 
ablotins). 

One  has  reason  to  suspect  that  Pere  Labat,  notwith- 
standing his  references  to  the  decision  of  the  Church 
that  diablotins  were  not  birds,  felt  quite  well  assured 
within  himself  that  they  were.  There  is  a  sly  humor  in 
his  story  of  these  controversies,  which  would  appear  to 
imply  that  while  well  pleased  at  the  decision  referred  to, 
he  knew  all  about  diablotins.  Moreover,  the  father  be- 
trays certain  tendencies  to  gormandize  not  altogether  in 
harmony  with  the  profession  of  an  ascetic.  .  .  .  There 
were  parrots  in  nearly  all  of  the  French  Antilles  in  those 
days  ;t  and  Pere  Labat  does  not  attempt  to  conceal  his 
fondness  for — cooked  parrots.  (He  does  not  appear  to 


*  Vol.  iii.,  p.  382-3.     Edition  of  1722. 

\  The  parrots  of  Martinique  he  describes  as  having  been  green, 
with  slate-colored  plumage  on  the  top  of  the  head,  mixed  with  a 
little  red,  and  as  having  a  few  red  feathers  in  the  wings,  throat,  and 
tail. 


Un  Revenant.  167 

have  cared  much  for  them  as  pets  :  if  they  could  not 
talk  well,  he  condemned  them  forthwith  to  the  pot.) 
"They  all  live  upon  fruits  and  seeds,"  he  writes,  "and 
their  flesh  contracts  the  odor  and  color  of  that  particular 
fruit  or  seed  they  feed  upon.  They  become  exceedingly 
fat  in  the  season  when  the  guavas  are  ripe ;  and  when 
they  eat  the  seeds  of  the  Bois  delude  they  have  an  odor 
of  nutmeg  and  cloves  which  is  delightful  (une  odeur  de 
muscade  et  de  girofle  qui  fait  plaisir)"  He  recommends 
four  superior  ways  of  preparing  them,  as  well  as  other 
fowls,  for  the  table,  of  which  the  first  and  the  best  way 
is  "  to  pluck  them  alive,  then  to  make  them  swallow  vin- 
egar, and  then  to  strangle  them  while  they  have  the  vin- 
egar still  in  their  throats  by  twisting  their  necks  " ;  and 
the  fourth  way  is  "to  skin  them  alive  "  (de  les  Scorcher 
tout  en  vie).  ..."  It  is  certain,"  he  continues,  "  that  these 
ways  are  excellent,  and  that  fowls  that  have  to  be  cooked 
in  a  hurry  thereby  obtain  an  admirable  tenderness  (une 
tendrete  admirable)"  Then  he  makes  a  brief  apology  to 
his  readers,  not  for  the  inhumanity  of  his  recipes,  but  for 
a  display  of  culinary  knowledge  scarcely  becoming  a 
monk,  and  acquired  only  through  those  peculiar  necessi- 
ties which  colonial  life  in  the  tropics  imposed  upon  all 
alike.  The  touch  of  cruelty  here  revealed  produces  an 
impression  which  there  is  little  in  the  entire  work  capa- 
ble of  modifying.  Labat  seems  to  have  possessed  but  a 
very  small  quantity  of  altruism ;  his  cynicism  on  the  sub- 
ject of  animal  suffering  is  not  offset  by  any  visible  sym- 
pathy with  human  pain  ; — he  never  compassionates  :  you 
may  seek  in  vain  through  all  his  pages  for  one  gleam  of 
the  goodness  of  gentle  Pere  Du  Tertre,  who,  filled  with 
intense  pity  for  the  condition  of  the  blacks,  prays  mas- 
ters to  be  merciful  and  just  to  their  slaves  for  the  love 
of  God.  Labat  suggests,  on  the  other  hand,  that  slavery 
is  a  good  means  of  redeeming  negroes  from  superstition 
and  saving  their  souls  from  hell :  he  selects  and  pur- 


1 68  Martinique  Sketches. 

chases  them  himself  for  the  Saint-Jacques  plantation, 
never  makes  a  mistake  or  a  bad  bargain,  and  never  ap- 
pears to  feel  a  particle  of  commiseration  for  their  lot. 
In  fact,  the  emotional  feeling  displayed  by  Pere  Du 
Tertre  (whom  he  mocks  slyly  betimes)  must  have  seemed 
to  him  rather  condemnable  than  praiseworthy;  for  Labat 
regarded  the  negro  as  a  natural  child  of  the  devil, — a 
born  sorcerer, — an  evil  being  wielding  occult  power. 

Perhaps  the  chapters  on  negro  sorcery  are  the  most 
astonishing  in  the  book,  displaying  on  the  part  of  this 
otherwise  hard  and  practical  nature  a  credulity  almost 
without  limit.  After  having  related  how  he  had  a  cer- 
tain negro  sent  out  of  the  country  "who  predicted  the 
arrival  of  vessels  and  other  things  to  come, — in  so  far, 
at  least,  as  the  devil  himself  was  able  to  know  and  re- 
veal these  matters  to  him,"  he  plainly  states  his  own 
belief  in  magic  as  follows  : — 

"I  know  there  are  many  people  who  consider  as 
pure  imagination,  and  as  silly  stories,  or  positive  false- 
hoods, all  that  is  related  about  sorcerers  and  their  com- 
pacts with  the  devil.  I  was  myself  for  a  long  time  of 
this  opinion.  Moreover,  I  am  aware  that  what  is  said  on 
this  subject  is  frequently  exaggerated;  but  I  am  now 
convinced  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  all  which  has 
been  related  is  not  entirely  false,  although  perhaps  it 
may  not  be  entirely  true."  .  .  . 

Therewith  he  begins  to  relate  stories  upon  what  may 
have  seemed  unimpeachable  authority  in  those  days. 
The  first  incident  narrated  took  place,  he  assures  us,  in 
the  Martinique  Dominican  convent,  shortly  before  his 
arrival  in  the  colony.  One  of  the  fathers,  Pere  Fraise, 
had  had  brought  to  Martinique,  "from  the  kingdom  of 
Juda  (?)  in  Guinea,"  a  little  negro  about  nine  or  ten  years 
old.  Not  long  afterwards  there  was  a  serious  drought, 
and  the  monks  prayed  vainly  for  rain.  Then  the  negro 
child,  who  had  begun  to  understand  and  speak  a  little 


Un  Revenant.  169 

French,  told  his  masters  that  he  was  a  Rain-maker,  that 
he  could  obtain  them  all  the  rain  they  wanted.  "  This 
proposition,"  says  Pere  Labat,  "greatly  astonished  the 
fathers  :  they  consulted  together,  and  at  last,  curiosity 
overcoming  reason,  they  gave  their  consent  that  this  un- 
baptized  child  should  make  some  rain  fall  on  their  gar- 
den." The  unbaptized  child  asked  them  if  they  wanted 
"  a  big  or  a  little  rain  "  ;  they  answered  that  a  moderate 
rain  would  satisfy  them.  Thereupon  the  little  negro  got 
three  oranges,  and  placed  them  on  the  ground  in  a  line 
at  a  short  distance  from  one  another,  and  bowed  down 
before  each  of  them  in  turn,  muttering  words  in  an  un- 
known tongue.  Then  he  got  three  small  orange-branch- 
es, stuck  a  branch  in  each  orange,  and  repeated  his  pros- 
trations and  mutterings  ; — after  which  he  took  one  of  the 
branches,  stood  up,  and  watched  the  horizon.  A  small 
cloud  appeared,  and  he  pointed  the  branch  at  it.  It  ap- 
proached swiftly,  rested  above  the  garden,  and  sent  down 
a  copious  shower  of  rain.  Then  the  boy  made  a  hole  in 
the  ground,  and  buried  the  oranges  and  the  branches. 
The  fathers  were  amazed  to  find  that  not  a  single  drop 
of  rain  had  fallen  outside  their  garden.  They  asked  the 
boy  who  had  taught  him  this  sorcery,  and  he  answered 
them  that  among  the  blacks  on  board  the  slave  -  ship 
which  had  brought  him  over  there  were  some  Rain- 
makers who  had  taught  him.  Pere  Labat  declares  there 
is  no  question  as  to  the  truth  of  the  occurrence  :  he  cites 
the  names  of  Pere  Fraise,  Pere  Rosie,  Pere  Temple,  and 
Pere  Bournot, — all  members  of  his  own  order, — as  trust- 
worthy witnesses  of  this  incident. 

Pere  Labat  displays  equal  credulity  in  his  recital  of  a 
still  more  extravagant  story  told  him  by  Madame  la  Com- 
tesse  du  Genes.  M.  le  Comte  du  Genes,  husband  of  the 
lady  in  question,  and  commander  of  a  French  squadron, 
captured  the  English  fort  of  Gorea  in  1696,  and  made 
prisoners  of  all  the  English  slaves  in  the  service  of  the 


I/O  Martinique  Sketches. 

factory  there  established.  But  the  vessel  on  which  these 
were  embarked  was  unable  to  leave  the  coast,  in  spite 
of  a  good  breeze  :  she  seemed  bewitched.  Some  of  the 
slaves  finally  told  the  captain  there  was  a  negress  on 
board  who  had  enchanted  the  ship,  and  who  had  the 
power  to  "  dry  up  the  hearts  "  of  all  who  refused  to  obey 
her.  A  number  of  deaths  taking  place  among  the  blacks, 
the  captain  ordered  autopsies  made,  and  it  was  found 
that  the  hearts  of  the  dead  negroes  were  desiccated. 
The  negress  was  taken  on  deck,  tied  to  a  gun  and  whip- 
ped, but  uttered  no  cry;— the  ship's  surgeon,  angered  at 
her  stoicism,  took  a  hand  in  the  punishment,  and  flogged 
her  "with  all  his  force."  Thereupon  she  told  him  that 
inasmuch  as  he  had  abused  her  without  reason,  his  heart 
also  should  be  "dried  up."  He  died  next  day;  and  his 
heart  was  found  in  the  condition  predicted.  All  this  time 
the  ship  could  not  be  made  to  move  in  any  direction  ; 
and  the  negress  told  the  captain  that  until  he  should  put 
her  and  her  companions  on  shore  he  would  never  be  able 
to  sail.  To  convince  him  of  her  power  she  further  ask- 
ed him  to  place  three  fresh  melons  in  a  chest,  to  lock  the 
chest  and  put  a  guard  over  it;  when  she  should  tell  him 
to  unlock  it,  there  would  be  no  melons  there.  The  cap- 
tain made  the  experiment.  When  the  chest  was  opened, 
the  melons  appeared  to  be  there  ;  but  on  touching  them 
it  was  found  that  only  the  outer  rind  remained  :  the 
interior  had  been  dried  up, — like  the  surgeon's  heart. 
Thereupon  the  captain  put  the  witch  and  her  friends 
ashore,  and  sailed  away  without  further  trouble. 

Another  story  of  African  sorcery  for  the  truth  of  which 
Pere  Labat  earnestly  vouches  is  the  following  : — 

A  negro  was  sentenced  to  be  burned  alive  for  witch- 
craft at  St.  Thomas  in  1701  :  his  principal  crime  was 
"  having  made  a  little  figure  of  baked  clay  to  speak." 
A  certain  Creole,  meeting  the  negro  on  his  way  to  the 
place  of  execution,  jeeringly  observed,  "  Well,  you  can- 


Un  Revenant.  1 71 

not  make  your  little  figure  talk  any  more  now; — it  has 
been  broken."  "  If  the  gentleman  allow  me,"  replied 
the  prisoner,"  I  will  make  the  cane  he  carries  in  his  hand 
speak."  The  Creole's  curiosity  was  strongly  aroused : 
he  prevailed  upon  the  guards  to  halt  a  few  minutes,  and 
permit  the  prisoner  to  make  the  experiment.  The  negro 
then  took  the  cane,  stuck  it  into  the  ground  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road,  whispered  something  to  it,  and  asked  the 
gentleman  what  he  wished  to  know.  "  I  would  like  to 

know,"  answered  the  latter,  "whether  the  ship has 

yet  sailed  from  Europe,  and  when  she  will  arrive."  "  Put 
your  ear  to  the  head  of  the  cane,"  said  the  negro.  On 
doing  so  the  Creole  distinctly  heard  a  thin  voice  which 
informed  him  that  the  vessel  in  question  had  left  a  cer- 
tain French  port  on  such  a  date ;  that  she  would  reach 
St.  Thomas  within  three  days ;  that  she  had  been  de- 
layed on  her  voyage  by  a  storm  which  had  carried  away 
her  foretop  and  her  mizzen  sail ;  that  she  had  such  and 
such  passengers  on  board  (mentioning  the  names),  all  in 
good  health.  .  .  .  After  this  incident  the  negro  was  burned 
alive;  but  within  three  days  the  vessel  arrived  in  port,  and 
the  prediction  or  divination  was  found  to  have  been  ab- 
solutely correct  in  every  particular. 

.  .  .  Pere  Labat  in  no  way  disapproves  the  atrocious 
sentence  inflicted  upon  the  wretched  negro  :  in  his  opinion 
such  predictions  were  made  by  the  power  and  with  the 
personal  aid  of  the  devil;  and  for  those  who  knowingly 
maintained  relations  with  the  devil,  he  could  not  have 
regarded  any  punishment  too  severe.  That  he  could  be 
harsh  enough  himself  is  amply  shown  in  various  accounts 
of  his  own  personal  experience  with  alleged  sorcerers,  and 
especially  in  the  narration  of  his  dealings  with  one — ap- 
parently a  sort«of  African  doctor — who  was  a  slave  on  a 
neighboring  plantation,  but  used  to  visit  the  Saint-Jacques 
quarters  by  stealth  to  practise  his  art.  One  of  the  slaves 
of  the  order,  a  negress,  falling  very  sick,  the  wizard  was 


172  Martinique  Sketches. 

sent  for ;  and  he  came  with  all  his  paraphernalia— little 
earthen  pots  and  fetiches,  etc. — during  the  night.  He 
began  to  practise  his  incantations,  without  the  least  sus- 
picion that  Pere  Labat  was  watching  him  through  a  chink; 
and,  after  having  consulted  his  fetiches,  he  told  the  sick 
woman  she  would  die  within  four  days.  At  this  juncture 
the  priest  suddenly  burst  in  the  door  and  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  several  powerful  slaves.  He  dashed  to  pieces 
the  soothsayer's  articles,  and  attempted  to  reassure  the 
frightened  negress,  by  declaring  the  prediction  a  lie  in- 
spired by  the  devil.  Then  he  had  the  sorcerer  stripped 
and  flogged  in  his  presence. 

"  I  had  him  given,"  he  calmly  observes,  "  about  (en- 
viroii)  three  hundred  lashes,  which  flayed  him  (Ftcorchait) 
from  his  shoulders  to  his  knees.  He  screamed  like  a 
madman.  All  the  negroes  trembled,  and  assured  me 
that  the  devil  would  cause  my  death.  .  .  .  Then  I  had 
the  wizard  put  in  irons,  after  having  had  him  well  washed 
with  a  pimentade,—\h&\.  is  to  say,  with  brine  in  which 
pimentos  and  small  lemons  have  been  crushed.  This 
causes  a  horrible  pain  to  those  skinned  by  the  whip  ;  but 
it  is  a  certain  remedy  against  gangrene.".  .  . 

And  then  he  sent  the  poor  wretch  back  to  his  master 
with  a  note  requesting  the  latter  to  repeat  the  punish- 
ment,— a  demand  that  seems  to  have  been  approved, 
as  the  owner  of  the  negro  was  "  a  man  who  feared  God." 
Yet  Pere  Labat  is  obliged  to  confess  that  in  spite  of  all 
his  efforts,  the  sick  negress  died  on  the  fourth  day, — as 
the  sorcerer  had  predicted.  This  fact  must  have  strong- 
ly confirmed  his  belief  that  the  devil  was  at  the  bottom 
of  the  whole  affair,  and  caused  him  to  doubt  whether 
even  a  flogging  of  about  three  hundred  lashes,  followed 
by  a  pimentade,  were  sufficient  chastisement  for  the  mis- 
erable black.  Perhaps  the  tradition  of  this  frightful  whip- 
ping may  have  had  something  to  do  with  the  terror  which 
still  attaches  to  the  name  of  the  Dominican  in  Marti- 


Un  Revenant.  173 

nique.  The  legal  extreme  punishment  was  twenty-nine 
lashes. 

Pere  Labat  also  avers  that  in  his  time  the  negroes 
were  in  the  habit  of  carrying  sticks  which  had  the  power 
of  imparting  to  any  portion  of  the  human  body  touched 
by  them  a  most  severe  chronic  pain.  He  at  first  be- 
lieved, he  says,  that  these  pains  were  merely  rheumatic  ; 
but  after  all  known  remedies  for  rheumatism  had  been 
fruitlessly  applied,  he  became  convinced  there  was  some- 
thing occult  and  diabolical  in  the  manner  of  using  and 
preparing  these  sticks.  ...  A  fact  worthy  of  note  is  that 
this  belief  is  still  prevalent  in  Martinique  ! 

One 'hardly  ever  meets  in  the  country  a  negro  who 
does  not  carry  either  a  stick  or  a  cutlass,  or  both.  The 
cutlass  is  indispensable  to  those  who  work  in  the  woods 
or  upon  plantations  ;(  the  stick  is  carried  both  as  a  pro- 
tection against  snakes  and  as  a  weapon  of  offence  and 
defence  in  village  quarrels,  for  unless  a  negro  be  extraor- 
dinarily drunk  he  will  not  strike  his  fellow  with  a  cutlass. 
The  sticks  are  usually  made  of  a  strong  dense  wood  : 
those  most  sought  after  of  a  material  termed  moudongue* 
almost  as  tough,  but  much  lighter  than,  our  hickory.  On 
inquiring  whether  any  of  the  sticks  thus  carried  were 
held  to  possess  magic  powers,  I  was  assured  by  many 
country  people  that  there  were  men  who  knew  a  peculiar 
method  of  "  arranging  "  sticks  so  that  to  touch  any  per- 
son with  them  even  lightly,  and  through  any  thickness  of 
clothing,  would  produce  terrible  and  continuous  pain. 


*  The  Creole  word  moudongue  is  said  to  be  a  corruption  of  Mon- 
dongue,  the  name  of  an  African  coast  tribe  who  had  the  reputation 
of  being  cannibals.  A  Mondongue  slave  on  the  plantations  was 
generally  feared  by  his  fellow-blacks  of  other  tribes ;  and  the  name 
of  the  cannibal  rsice  became  transformed  into  an  adjective  to  de- 
note anything  formidable  or  terrible.  A  blow  with  a  stick  made 
of  the  wood  described  being  greatly  dreaded,  the  term  was  applied 
first  to  the  stick,  and  afterward  to  the  wood  itself. 


174  Martinique  Sketches. 

Believing  in  these  things,  and  withal  unable  to  decide 
whether  the  sun  revolved  about  the  earth,  or  the  earth 
about  the  sun,*  Pere  Labat  was,  nevertheless,  no  more 
credulous  and  no  more  ignorant  than  the  average  mis- 
sionary of  his  time  :  it  is  only  by  contrast  with  his  practi- 
cal perspicacity  in  other  matters,  his  worldly  rationalism 
and  executive  shrewdness,  that  this  superstitious  naivete 
impresses  one  as  odd.  And  how  singular  sometimes  is 
the  irony  of  Time  !  All  the  wonderful  work  the  Domin- 
ican accomplished  has  been  forgotten  by  the  people ; 
while  all  the  witchcrafts  that  he  warred  against  survive 
and  flourish  openly;  and  his  very  name  is  seldom  uttered 
but  in  connection  with  superstitions, — has  been,  in  fact, 
preserved  among  the  blacks  by  the  power  of  supersti- 
tion alone,  by  the  belief  in  zombis  and  goblins.  .  .  .  "Mi/ 
ti  manmaille-la,  main  kefai  Pe  Labatt  vini  pouend  ouf". .  . 


V. 

FEW  habitants  of  St.  Pierre  now  remember  that  the 
beautiful  park  behind  the  cathedral  used  to  be  called  the 
Savanna  of  the  White  Fathers, — and  the  long  shadowed 
meadow  beside  the  Roxelane,  the  Savanna  of  the  Black 
Fathers  :  the  Jesuits.  All  the  great  religious  orders  have 
long  since  disappeared  from  the  colony :  their  edific.es 
have  been  either  converted  to  other  uses  or  demolished ; 
their  estates  have  passed  into  other  hands.  .  .  .  Were 
their  labors,  then,  productive  of  merely  ephemeral  re- 
sults ? — was  the  colossal  work  of  a  Pere  Labat  all  in 


*  Accounting  for  the  origin  of  the  trade-winds,  he  writes :  "  I  say 
that  the  Trade- Winds  do  not  exist  in  the  Torrid  Zone  merely  by 
chance  ;  forasmuch  as  the  cause  which  produces  them  is  very  neces- 
sary, very  sure,  and  very  continuous,  since  they  result  either  from 
the  movement  of  the  Earth  around  the  Sun,  or  from  the  movement 
of  the  Sun  around  the  Earth.  Whether  it  be  the  one  or  the  other 
of  these  two  great  bodies  which  moves.  .  ."  etc. 


Un  Revenant.  175 

vain,  so  far  as  the  future  is  concerned  ?  The  question 
is  not  easily  answered  ;  but  it  is  worth  considering. 

Of  course  the  material  prosperity  which  such  men 
toiled  to  obtain  for  their  order  represented  nothing  more, 
even  to  their  eyes,  than  the  means  of  self-maintenance, 
and  the  accumulation  of  force  necessary  for  the  future 
missionary  labors  of  the  monastic  community.  The  real 
ultimate  purpose  was,  not  the  acquisition  of  power  for 
the  order,  but  for  the  Church,  of  which  the  orders  rep- 
resented only  a  portion  of  the  force  militant ;  and  this 
purpose  did  not  fail  of  accomplishment.  The  orders 
passed  away  only  when  their  labors  had  been  complet- 
ed,— when  Martinique  had  become  (exteriorly,  at  least) 
more  Catholic  than  Rome  itself, — after  the  missionaries 
had  done  all  that  religious  zeal  could  do  in  moulding 
and  remoulding  the  human  material  under  their  control. 
These  men  could  scarcely  have  anticipated  those  social 
and  political  changes  which  the  future  reserved  for  the 
colonies,  and  which  no  ecclesiastical  sagacity  could,  in 
any  event,  have  provided  against.  It  is  in  the  existing 
religious  condition  of  these  communities  that  one  may 
observe  and  estimate  the  character  and  the  probable  du- 
ration of  the  real  work  accomplished  by  the  missions. 

.  .  .  Even  after  a  prolonged  residence  in  Martinique, 
its  visible  religious  condition  continues  to  impress  one 
as  something  phenomenal.  A  stranger,  who  has  no  op- 
portunity to  penetrate  into  the  home  life  of  the  people, 
will  not,  perhaps,  discern  the  full  extent  of  the  religious 
sentiment ;  but,  nevertheless,  however  brief  his  stay,  he 
will  observe  enough  of  the  extravagant  symbolism  of  the 
cult  to  fill  him  with  surprise.  Wherever  he  may  choose 
to  ride  or  to  walk,  he  is  certain  to  encounter  shrines, 
statues  of  saints,  or  immense  crucifixes.  Should  he  climb 
up  to  the  clouds  of  the  peaks,  he  will  find  them  all  along 
the  way ; — he  will  perceive  them  waiting  for  him,  looming 
through  the  mists  of  the  heights ;  and  passing  through 


176  Martinique  Sketches. 

the  loveliest  ravines,  he  will  see  niches  hollowed  out  in 
the  volcanic"  rocks,  above  and  below  him,  or  contrived 
in  the  trunks  of  trees  bending  over  precipices,  often  in 
places  so  difficult  of  access  that  he  wonders  how  the  work 
could  have  been  accomplished.  All  this  has  been  done 
by  the  various  property-owners  throughout  the  country: 
it  is  the  traditional  custom  to  do  it — brings  good-luck! 
After  a  longer  stay  in  the  island,  one  discovers  also  that 
in  almost  every  room  of  every  dwelling — stone  residence, 
wooden  cottage,  or  palm  -  thatched  ajoupa — there  is  a 
chapelle :  that  is,  a  sort  of  large  bracket  fastened  to  the 
wall,  on  which  crosses  or  images  are  placed,  with  vases 
of  flowers,  and  lamps  or  wax-tapers  to  be  burned  at  night. 
Sometimes,  moreover,  statues  are  placed  in  windows,  or 
above  door-ways  ; — and  all  passers-by  take  off  their  hats 
to  these.  Over  the  porch  of  the  cottage  in  a  mountain 
village,  where  I  lived  for  some  weeks,  there  was  an  ab- 
surd little  window  contrived, — a  sort  of  purely  ornamental 
dormer, — and  in  this  a  Virgin  about  five  inches  high  had 
been  placed.  At  a  little  distance  it  looked  like  a  toy, — 
a  child's  doll  forgotten  there ;  and  a  doll  I  always  sup- 
posed it  to  be,  until  one  day  that  I  saw  a  long  proces- 
sion of  black  laborers  passing  before  the  house,  every 
one  of  whom  took  off  his  hat  to  it.  ...  My  bedchamber 
in  the  same  cottage  resembled  a  religious  museum.  On 
the  chapelle  there  were  no  less  than  eight  Virgins,  vary- 
ing in  height  from  one  to  sixteen  inches, — a  St.  Joseph, — 
a  St.  John, — a  crucifix, — and  a  host  of  little  objects  in 
the  shape  of  hearts  or  crosses,  each  having  some  special 
religious  significance; — while  the  walls  were  covered 
with  framed  certificates  of  baptism,  "first-communion," 
confirmation,  and  other  documents  commemorating  the 
whole  church  life  of  the  family  for  two  generations. 

.  .  .  Certainly  the  first  impression  created  by  this  per- 
petual display  of  crosses,  statues,  and  miniature  chapels 
is  not  pleasing, — particularly  as  the  work  is  often  inar- 


A   WAYSIDE   SHRINE,   OR   CHAPELLE. 


Un  Revenant.  177 

tistic  to  a  degree  bordering  upon  the  grotesque,  and 
nothing  resembling  art  is  anywhere  visible.  Millions 
of  francs  must  have  been  consumed  in  these  creations, 
which  have  the  rudeness  of  mediaevalism  without  its 
emotional  sincerity,  and  which — amid  the  loveliness  of 
tropic  nature,  the  grace  of  palms,  the  many-colored  fire 
of  liana  blossoms— jar  on  the  aesthetic  sense  with  an  al- 
most brutal  violence.  Yet  there  is  a  veiled  poetry  in 
these  silent  populations  of  plaster  and  wood  and  stone. 
They  represent  something  older  than  the  Middle  Ages, 
older  than  Christianity, — something  strangely  distorted 
and  transformed,  it  is  true,  but  recognizably  conserved 
by  the  Latin  race  from  those  antique  years  when  every 
home  had  its  beloved  ghosts,  when  every  wood  or  hill 
or  spring  had  its  gracious  divinity,  and  the  boundaries 
of  all  fields  were  marked  and  guarded  by  statues  of 
gods. 

Instances  of  iconoclasm  are  of  course  highly  rare  in 
a  country  of  which  no  native — rich  or  poor,  white  or 
half-breed — fails  to  doff  his  hat  before  every  shrine, 
cross,  or  image  he  may  happen  to  pass.  Those  mer- 
chants of  St.  Pierre  or  of  Fort-de-France  living  only  a 
few  miles  out  of  the  city  must  certainly  perform  a  vast 
number  of  reverences  on  their  way  to  or  from  busi- 
ness;— I  saw  one  old  gentleman  uncover  his  white  head 
about  twenty  times  in  the  course  of  a  fifteen  minutes' 
walk.  I  never  heard  of  but  one  image-breaker  in  Mar- 
tinique ;  and  his  act  was  the  result  of  superstition,  not 
of  any  hostility  to  popular  faith  or  custom :  it  was 
prompted  by  the  same  childish  feeling  which  moves 
Italian  fishermen  sometimes  to  curse  St.  Antony  or  to 
give  his  image  a  ducking  in  bad  weather.  This  Mar- 
tinique iconoclast  was  a  negro  cattle-driver  who  one  day, 
feeling  badly  in  need  of  a  glass  of  tafia,  perhaps,  left  the 
animals  intrusted  to  him  in  care  of  a  plaster  image  of 
the  Virgin,  with  this  menace  (the  phrase  is  on  record) : — 


178  Martinique  Sketches. 

"Main  ka  quitte  bef-la  ba  ou pou  gade  ba  main.  Quand 
moin  vini,  si  moin  pa  tronv'e  compte-moin,  mom  ke  foute  ou 
vingt-nef  coudfoiiett  /"  (I  leave  these  cattle  with  you  to 
take  care  of  for  me.  When  I  come  back,  if  I  don't  find 
them  all  here,  I'll  give  you  twenty-nine  lashes.) 

Returning  about  half  an  hour  later,  he  was  greatly 
enraged  to  find  his  animals  scattered  in  every  direc- 
tion ; — and,  rushing  at  the  statue,  he  broke  it  from  the 
pedestal,  flung  it  upon  the  ground,  and  gave  it  twenty- 
nine  lashes  with  his  bull-whip.  For  this  he  was  ar- 
rested, tried,  and  sentenced  to  imprisonment,  with  hard 
labor,  for  life !  In  those  days  there  were  no  colored 
magistrates  ; — the  judges  were  all  bekes. 

"Rather  a  severe  sentence,"  I  remarked  to  my  in- 
formant, a  planter  who  conducted  me  to  the  scene  of  the 
alleged  sacrilege. 

"  Severe,  yes,"  he  answered  ; — "  and  I  suppose  the  act 
would  seem  to  you  more  idiotic  than  criminal.  But 
here,  in  Martinique,  there  were  large  questions  involved 
by  such  an  offence.  Relying,  as  we  have  always  done 
to  some  extent,  upon  religious  influence  as  a  factor  in 
the  maintenance  of  social  order,  the  negro's  act  seemed 
a  dangerous  example."  .  .  . 

That  the  Church  remains  still  rich  and  prosperous 
in  Martinique  there  can  be  no  question  ;  but  whether  it 
continues  to  wield  any  powerful  influence  in  the  mainte- 
nance of  social  order  is  more  than  doubtful.  A  Poly- 
nesian laxity  of  morals  among  the  black  and  colored 
population,  and  the  history  of  race-hatreds  and  revolu- 
tions inspired  by  race-hate,  would  indicate  that  neither 
in  ethics  nor  in  politics  does  it  possess  any  preponderant 
authority.  By  expelling  various  religious  orders  ; — by 
establishing  lay  schools,  lyce'es,  and  other  educational 
institutions  where  the  teaching  is  largely  characterized 
by  aggressive  antagonism  to  Catholic  ideas; — by  the 


Un  Revenant.  179 

removal  of  crucifixes  and  images  from  public  buildings, 
French  Radicalism  did  not  inflict  any  great  blow  upon 
Church  interests.  So  far  as  the  white,  and,  one  may  say, 
the  wealthy,  population  is  concerned,  the  Church  tri- 
umphs in  her  hostility  to  the  Government  schools ;  and 
to  the  same  extent  she  holds  an  educational  monopo- 
ly. No  white  Creole  would  dream  of  sending  his  chil- 
dren to  a  lay  school  or  a  lycee — notwithstanding  the  un- 
questionable superiority  of  the  educational  system  in  the 
latter  institutions ; — and,  although  obliged,  as  the  chief 
tax -paying  class,  to  bear  the  burden  of  maintaining 
these  establishments,  the  whites  hold  them  in  such  hor- 
ror that  the  Government  professors  are  socially  ostra- 
cized. No  doubt  the  prejudice  or  pride  which  abhors 
mixed  schools  aids  the  Church  in  this  respect;  she  her- 
self recognizes  race-feeling,  keeps  her  schools  unmixed, 
and  even  in  her  convents,  it  is  said,  obliges  the  colored 
nuns  to  serve  the  white !  For  more  than  two  centuries 
every  white  generation  has  been  religiously  moulded  in 
the  seminaries  and  convents ;  and  among  the  native 
whites  one  never  hears  an  overt  declaration  of  free- 
thought  opinion.  Except  among  the  colored  men  edu- 
cated in  the  Government  schools,  or  their  foreign  pro- 
fessors, there  are  no  avowed  free-thinkers ; — and  this, 
not  because  the  Creole  whites,  many  of  whom  have  been 
educated  in  Paris,  are  naturally  narrow-minded,  or  inca- 
pable of  sympathy  with  the  mental  expansion  of  the  age, 
but  because  the  religious  question  at  Martinique  has 
become  so  intimately  complicated  with  the  social  and 
political  one,  concerning  which  there  can  be  no  com- 
promise whatever,  that  to  divorce  the  former  from  the 
latter  is  impossible.  Roman  Catholicism  is  an  element 
of  the  cement  which  holds  Creole  society  together ;  and 
it  is  noteworthy  that  other  creeds  are  not  represented. 
I  knew  only  of  one  Episcopalian  and  one  Methodist  in 
the  island, — and  heard  a  sort  of  legend  about  a  solitary 


180  Martinique  Sketches. 

Jew  whose  whereabouts  I  never  could  discover; — but 
these  were  strangers. 

It  was  only  through  the  establishment  of  universal  suf- 
frage, which  placed  the  white  population  at  the  mercy 
of  its  former  slaves,  that  the  Roman  Church  sustained 
any  serious  injury.  All  local  positions  are  filled  by  blacks 
or  men  of  color ;  no  white  Creole  can  obtain  a  public 
office  or  take  part  in  legislation ;  and  the  whole  power 
of  the  black  vote  is  ungenerously  used  against  the  inter- 
ests of  the  class  thus  politically  disinherited.  The  Church 
suffers  in  consequence  :  her  power  depended  upon  her 
intimate  union  with  the  wealthy  and  dominant  class  ;  and 
she  will  never  be  forgiven  by  those  now  in  power  for  her 
sympathetic  support  of  that  class  in  other  years.  Politics 
yearly  intensify  this  hostility ;  and  as  the  only  hope  for 
the  restoration  of  the  whites  to  power,  and  of  the  Church 
to  its  old  position,  lies  in  the  possibility  of  another  em- 
pire or  a  revival  of  the  monarchy,  the  white  Creoles  and 
their  Church  are  forced  into  hostility  against  republican- 
ism and  the  republic.  And  political  newspapers  contin- 
ually attack  Roman  Catholicism,— 7mock  its  tenets  and 
teachings, — ridicule  its  dogmas  and  ceremonies, — satirize 
its  priests. 

In  the  cities  and  towns  the  Church  indeed  appears  to 
retain  a  large  place  in  the  affection  of  the  poorer  class- 
es ; — her  ceremonies  are  always  well  attended ;  money 
pours  into  her  coffers  ;  and  one  can  still  witness  the  cu- 
rious annual  procession  of  the  "converted," — aged  wom- 
en of  color  and  negresses  going  to  communion  for  the 
first  time,  all  wearing  snow-white  turbans  in  honor  of  the 
event.  But  among  the  country  people,  where  the  dan- 
gerous forces  of  revolution  exist,  Christian  feeling  is  al- 
most stifled  by  ghastly  beliefs  of  African  origin; — the 
images  and  crucifixes  still  command  respect,  but  this 
respect  is  inspired  by  a  feeling  purely  fetichistic.  With 
the  political  dispossession  of  the  whites,  certain  dark 


Un  Revenant.  181 

powers,  previously  concealed  or  repressed,  have  obtained 
formidable  development.  The  old  enemy  of  Pere  Labat, 
the  wizard  (the  quimboiseur),  already  wields  more  author- 
ity than  the  priest,  exercises  more  terror  than  the  magis- 
trate, commands  more  confidence  than  the  physician. 
The  educated  mulatto  class  may  affect  to  despise  him ; — 
but  he  is  preparing  their  overthrow  in  the  dark.  Aston- 
ishing is  the  persistence  with  which  the  African  has  clung 
to  these  beliefs  and  practices,  so  zealously  warred  upon 
by  the  Church  and  so  mercilessly  punished  by  the  courts 
for  centuries.  He  still  goes  to  mass,  and  sends  his 
children  to  the  priest;  but  he  goes  more  often  to  the 
quimboiseur  and  the  "  magnetise"  He  finds  use  for  both 
beliefs,  but  gives  large  preference  to  the  savage  one, — 
just  as  he  prefers  the  pattering  of  his  tamtam  to  the  mu- 
sic of  the  military  band  at  the  Savane  du  Fort.  .  .  .  And 
should  it  come  to  pass  that  Martinique  be  ever  totally 
abandoned  by  its  white  population, — an  event  by  no 
means  improbable  in  the  present  order  of  things, — the 
fate  of  the  ecclesiastical  fabric  so  toilsomely  reared  by 
the  monastic  orders  is  not  difficult  to  surmise. 


VI. 

FROM  my  window  in  the  old  Rue  du  Bois-Morin, — 
which  climbs  the  foot  of  Morne  Labelle  by  successions 
of  high  stone  steps, — all  the  southern  end  of  the  city  is 
visible  as  in  a  bird's-eye  view.  Under  me  is  a  long 
peaking  of  red -scaled  roofs, — gables  and  dormer-win- 
dows,— with  clouds  of  bright  green  here  and  there, — . 
foliage  of  tamarind  and  corossolier; — westward  purples' 
and  flames  the  great  circle  of  the  Caribbean  Sea ; — east 
and  south,  towering  to  the  violet  sky,  curve  the  volcanic 
hills,  green-clad  from  base  to  summit ; — and  right  before 
me  the  beautiful  Morne  d'Orange,  all  palm-plumed  and 
wood-wrapped,  trends  seaward  and  southward.  And  ev- 


1 82  Martinique  Sketches. 

ery  night,  after  the  stars  come  out,  I  see  moving  lights 
there, — lantern  fires  guiding  the  mountain-dwellers  home ; 
but  I  look  in  vain  for  the  light  of  Pere  Labat. 

And  nevertheless, — although  no  believer  in  ghosts, — I 
see  thee  very  plainly  sometimes,  thou  quaint  White  Fa- 
ther, moving  through  winter-mists  in  the  narrower  Paris 
of  another  century ;  musing  upon  the  churches  that  arose 
at  thy  bidding  under  tropic  skies ;  dreaming  of  the  pri- 
meval valleys  changed  by  thy  will  to  green-gold  seas  of 
cane, — and  the  strong  mill  that  will  bear  thy  name  for 
two  hundred  years  (it  stands  solid  unto  this  day), — and 
the  habitations  made  for  thy  brethren  in  pleasant  palmy 
places, — and  the  luminous  peace  of  thy  Martinique  con- 
vent,— and  odor  of  roasting  parrots  fattened  upon  grains 
de  bois  d'  Inde  and  guavas, — "  Fodeur  de  muscade  et  de  girofle 
qui  fait  plaisir"  .  .  . 

Eh,  Pere  Labat! — what  changes  there  have  been  since 
thy  day !  The  White  Fathers  have  no  place  here  now ; 
and  the  Black  Fathers,  too,  have  been  driven  from  the 
land,  leaving  only  as  a  memory  of  them  the  perfect  and 
ponderous  architecture  of  the  Perinnelle  plantation-build- 
ings, and  the  appellation  of  the  river  still  known  as  the 
Riviere  des  Peres.  Also  the  Ursulines  are  gone,  leaving 
only  their  name  on  the  corner  of  a  crumbling  street. 
And  there  are  no  more  slaves ;  and  there  are  new  races 
of  colors  thou  wouldst  deem  scandalous  though  beauti- 
ful ;  and  there  are  no  more  parrots ;  and  there  are  no 
more  diablotins.  And  the  grand  woods  thou  sawest  in 
their  primitive  and  inviolate  beauty,  as  if  fresh  from  the 
Creator's  touch  in  the  morning  of  the  world,  are  passing 
away ;  the  secular  trees  are  being  converted  into  char- 
coal, or  sawn  into  timber  for  the  boat-builders :  thou 
shouldst  see  two  hundred  men  pulling  some  forest  giant 
down  to  the  sea  upon  the  two-wheeled  screaming  thing 
they  call  a  "  devil "  (yon  diabe), — cric-crac  ! — cric-crac  ! — 
all  chanting  together  : — 


Un  Revenant.  183 

' '  Soh  -  soh  ! — ya'ie -yah  ! 
Rhdti  bois-canot!" 

And  all  that  ephemeral  man  has  had  power  to  change 
has  been  changed, — ideas,  morals,  beliefs,  the  whole  so- 
cial fabric.  But  the  eternal  summer  remains, — and  the 
Hesperian  magnificence  of  azure  sky  and  violet  sea, — 
and  the  jewel-colors  of  the  perpetual  hills ; — the  same 
tepid  winds  that  rippled  thy  cane -fields  two  hundred 
years  ago  still  blow  over  Sainte-Marie ; — the  same  pur- 
ple shadows  lengthen  and  dwindle  and  turn  with  the 
wheeling  of  the  sun.  God's  witchery  still  fills  this  land  ; 
and  the  heart  of  the  stranger  is  even  yet  snared  by  the 
beauty  of  it ;  and  the  dreams  of  him  that  forsakes  it 
will  surely  be  haunted  —  even  as  were  thine  own,  Pere 
Labat— by  memories  of  its  Eden-summer :  the  sudden 
leap  of  the  light  over  a  thousand  peaks  in  the  glory  of 
tropic  dawn, — the  perfumed  peace  of  enormous  azure 
noons, — and  shapes  of  palm  wind-rocked  in  the  burning 
of  colossal  sunsets, — and  the  silent  flickering  of  the  great 
fire-flies  through  the  lukewarm  darkness,  when  mothers 
call  their  children  home.  ..."  Mi  fanal  Pe  Labatt  / — mi 
Pe  Labatt  ka  vini  pouend  ou!" 


LA  GUIABLESSE. 

i. 

NIGHT  in  all  countries  brings  with  it  vaguenesses  and 
illusions  which  terrify  certain  imaginations ; — but  in  the 
tropics  it  produces  effects  peculiarly  impressive  and  pe- 
culiarly sinister.  Shapes  of  vegetation  that  startle  even 
while  the  sun  shines  upon  them  assume,  after  his  setting, 
a  grimness, — a  grotesquery, — a  suggestiveness  for  which 
there  is  no  name.  ...  In  the  North  a  tree  is  simply  a 
tree; — here  it  is  a  personality  that  makes  itself  felt;  it 
has  a  vague  physiognomy,  an  indefinable  Me :  it  is  an 
Individual  (with  a  capital  I) ;  it  is  a  Being  (with  a  cap- 
ital B). 

From  the  high  woods,  as  the  moon  mounts,  fantastic 
darknesses  descend  into  the  roads, — black  distortions, 
mockeries,  bad  dreams, — an  endless  procession  of  goblins. 
Least  startling  are  the  shadows  flung  down  by  the  vari- 
ous forms  of  palm,  because  instantly  recognizable; — yet 
these  take  the  semblance  of  giant  fingers  opening  and 
closing  over  the  way,  or  a  black  crawling  of  unutterable 
spiders.  .  .  . 

Nevertheless,  these  phasma  seldom  alarm  the  solitary 
and  belated  Bitaco  :  the  darknesses  that  creep  stealthily 
along  the  path  have  no  frightful  signification  for  him, — 
do  not  appeal  to  his  imagination ; — if  he  suddenly  starts 
and  stops  and  stares,  it  is  not  because  of  such  shapes, 
but  because  he  has  perceived  two  specks  of  orange  light, 


La  Guiablesse.  185 

and  is  not  yet  sure  whether  they  are  only  fire-flies,  or  the 
eyes  of  a  trigonocephalus.  The  spectres  of  his  fancy 
have  nothing  in  common  with  those  indistinct  and  mon- 
strous umbrages :  what  he  most  fears,  next  to  the  dead- 
ly serpent,  are  human  witchcrafts.  A  white  rag,  an  old 
bone  lying  in  the  path,  might  be  a  malefice  which,  if  trod- 
den upon,  would  cause  his  leg  to  blacken  and  swell  up 
to  the  size  of  the  limb  of  an  elephant; — an  unopened 
bundle  of  plantain  leaves  or  of  bamboo  stoppings,  drop- 
ped by  the  way-side,  might  contain  the  skin  of  a  Soucou- 
yan.  But  the  ghastly  being  who  doffs  or  dons  his  skin 
at  will  —  and  the  Zombi  —  and  the  Moun-Mo — may  be 
quelled  or  exorcised  by  prayer ;  and  the  lights  of  shrines, 
the  white  gleaming  of  crosses,  continually  remind  the 
traveller  of  his  duty  to  the  Powers  that  save.  All  along 
the  way  there  are  shrines  at  intervals,  not  very  far  apart: 
while  standing  in  the  radiance  of  one  niche-lamp,  you 
may  perhaps  discern  the  glow  of  the  next,  if  the  road  be 
level  and  straight.  They  are  almost  everywhere, — shin- 
ing along  the  skirts  of  the  woods,  at  the  entrance  of  ra- 
vines, by  the  verges  of  precipices  ; — there  is  a  cross  even 
upon  the  summit  of  the  loftiest  peak  in  the  island.  And 
the  night-walker  removes  his  hat  each  time  his  bare  feet 
touch  the  soft  stream  of  yellow  light  outpoured  from  the 
illuminated  shrine  of  a  white  Virgin  or  a  white  Christ. 
These  are  good  ghostly  company  for  him ; — he  salutes 
them,  talks  to  them,  tells  them  his  pains  or  fears  :  their 
blanched  faces  seem  to  him  full  of  sympathy ; — they  ap- 
pear to  cheer  him  voicelessly  as  he  strides  from  gloom 
to  gloom,  under  the  goblinry  of  those  woods  which  tower 
black  as  ebony  under  the  stars.  .  .  .  And  he  has  other 
companionship.  One  of  the  greatest  terrors  of  darkness 
in  other  lands  does  not  exist  here  after  the  setting  of  the 
sun, — the  terror  of  Silence.  .  .  .  Tropical  night  is  full  of 
voices  ; — extraordinary  populations  of  crickets  are  trill- 
ing; nations  of  tree-frogs  are  chanting;  the  Cabri-des- 


1 86  Martinique  Sketches. 

bois*  or  era -era,  almost  deafens  you  with  the  wheezy 
bleating  sound  by  which  it  earned  its  Creole  name  ;  birds 
pipe  :  everything  that  bells,  ululates,  drones,  clacks,  gug- 
gles, joins  the  enormous  chorus  ;  and  you  fancy  you  see 
all  the  shadows  vibrating  to  the  force  of  this  vocal  storm. 
The  true  life  of  Nature  in  the  tropics  begins  with  the 
darkness,  ends  with  the  light. 

And  it  is  partly,  perhaps,  because  of  these  conditions 
that  the  coming  of  the  dawn  does  not  dissipate  all  fears 
of  the  supernatural.  1 ni  pe  zombi  menm  grarf-jou  (he  is 
afraid  of  ghosts  even  in  broad  daylight)  is  a  phrase  which 
does  not  sound  exaggerated  in  these  latitudes, — not,  at 
least,  to  any  one  knowing  something  of  the  conditions 
that  nourish  or  inspire  weird  beliefs.  In  the  awful  peace 
of  tropical  day,  in  the  hush  of  the  woods,  the  solemn 
silence  of  the  hills  (broken  only  by  torrent  voices  that 
cannot  make  themselves  heard  at  night),  even  in  the 
amazing  luminosity,  there  is  a  something  apparitional 
and  weird, — something  that  seems  to  weigh  upon  the 
world  like  a  measureless  haunting.  So  still  all  Nature's 
chambers  are  that  a  loud  utterance  jars  upon  the  ear 
brutally,  like  a  burst  of  laughter  in  a  sanctuary.  With 
all  its  luxuriance  of  color,  with  all  its  violence  of  light, 
this  tropical  day  has  its  ghostliness  and  its  ghosts.  Among 
the  people  of  color  there  are  many  who  believe  that  even 
at  noon — when  the  boulevards  behind  the  city  are  most 
deserted — the  zombis  will  show  themselves  to  solitary 
loiterers. 

II. 

.  .  .  HERE  a  doubt  occurs  to  me, — a  doubt  regarding 
the  precise  nature  of  a  word,  which  I  call  upon  Adou  to 

*  In  Creole,  calritt-bois, — ("  the  Wood-Kid.") — a  colossal  cricket. 
Precisely  at  half-past  four  in  the  morning  it  becomes  silent;  and  for 
thousands  of  early  risers  too  poor  to  own  a  clock,  the  cessation  of 
its  song  is  the  signal  to  get  up. 


La  Guiablesse.  187 

explain.  Adou  is  the  daughter  of  the  kind  old  capresse 
from  whom  I  rent  my  room  in  this  little  mountain  cot- 
tage. The  mother  is  almost  precisely  the  color  of  cin- 
namon ;  the  daughter's  complexion  is  brighter,  —  the 
ripe  tint  of  an  orange.  .  .  .  Adou  tells  me  Creole  stories 
and  tim-tim.  Adou  knows  all  about  ghosts,  and  believes 
in  them.  So  does  Adou's  extraordinarily  tall  brother, 
Yebe, — my  guide  among  the  mountains. 

— "Adou,"  I  ask,  "what  is  a  zombi  ?" 

The  smile  that  showed  Adou's  beautiful  white  teeth 
has  instantly  disappeared ;  and  she  answers,  very  serious- 
ly, that  she  has  never  seen  a  zombi,  and  does  not  want 
to  see  one. 

— "Moin  pa  te  janmain  one  zombi, — pa  'le  one  fa,  moin  /" 

— "  But,  Adou,  child,  I  did  not  ask  you  whether  you  ever 
saw  It ; — I  asked  you  only  to  tell  me  what  It  is  like  ?".  .  . 

Adou  hesitates  a  little,  and  answers : 

— "  Zombi  ?    Mais  fa  fai  desode  lanuitt,  zombi  /" 

Ah!  it  is  Something  which  "makes  disorder  at  night." 
Still,  that  is  not  a  satisfactory  explanation.  "  Is  it  the 
spectre  of  a  dead  person,  Adou  ?  Is  it  one  who  comes 
back  ?" 

— "  Non,  Missie, — non;  fe  pa  fa." 

— "  Not  that  ? .  . .  Then  what  was  it  you  said  the  other 
night  when  you  were  afraid  to  pass  the  cemetery  on  an 
errand, — fa  ou  te  ka  di,  Adou  ?" 

— "  Moin  te  ka  di:  '  Moin  pa  le  k'alle  bo  cimetie-la  pa 
ouappb  moun-mb; — moun-mo  ke  barre  moin  :  moin  pa  se 
pe  vini  enco.'  "  (I  said,  "  / do  not  want  to  go  by  that  cem- 
etery because  of  the  dead  folk;— the  dead  folk  will  bar  the 
way,  and  I  cannot  get  back  again"} 

— "And  you  believe  that,  Adou?" 

— "  Yes,  that  is  what  they  say .  .  .  And  if  you  go  into 
the  cemetery  at  night  you  cannot  come  out  again :  the 
dead  folk  will  stop  you — moun-mo  ke  barre  ou".  .  . 

—"But  are  the  dead  folk  zombis,  Adou  ?" 


1 88-  Martinique  Sketches. 

— "  No  ;  the  moun-mb  are  not  zombis.  The  zombis  go 
everywhere :  the  dead  folk  remain  in  the  graveyard.  .  .  . 
Except  on  the  Night  of  All  Souls  :  then  they  go  to  the 
houses  of  their  people  everywhere." 

— "  Adou,  if  after  the  doors  and  windows  were  locked 
and  barred  you  were  to  see  entering  your  room  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  a  Woman  fourteen  feet  high  ?".  .  . 

—"Ah! papale  ca! !".  .  . 

— "  No  !  tell  me,  Adou  ?" 

— "  Why,  yes  :  that  would  be  a  zombi.  It  is  the  zom- 
bis who  make  all  those  noises  at  night  one  cannot  un- 
derstand. ...  Or,  again,  if  I  were  to  see  a  dog  that 
high  [she  holds  her  hand  about  five  feet  above  the 
floor]  coming  into  our  house  at  night,  I  would  scream  : 
Mi  Zombi r 

.  .  .  Then  it  suddenly  occurs  to  Adou  that  her  mother 
knows  something  about  zombis. 

—"Ou/  Manman!" 

—"Eti!"  answers  old  Thereza's  voice  from  the  little 
out-building  where  the  evening  meal  is  being  prepared, 
over  a  charcoal  furnace,  in  an  earthen  canari. 

— "Missie-la  ka  mande  save  fa  $a  ye  yonne  zombi; — vim 
ti  bouin  /". . .  The  mother  laughs,  abandons  her  canari,  and 
comes  in  to  tell  me  all  she  knows  about  the  weird  word. 

"/ ni pe  zombi'1'' — I  find  from  old  Thereza's  explana- 
tions—is a  phrase  indefinite  as  our  own  vague  expres- 
sions, "  afraid  of  ghosts,"  "  afraid  of  the  dark."  But  the 
word  "Zombi"  also  has  special  strange  meanings.  .  .  . 
"Ou  passe  nans  grand  chimin  lanuitt,  epi  ou  ka  oue 
gouos  dife,  epi  plis  ou  ka  vini  assou  dife-a  pli  ou  ka 
oue  dife-a  ka  mache  :  ^e  zombi  ka  fai  ga. . . .  Enco,  chou- 
val  ka  passe, — chouval  ka  ni  anni  toua  patt:  c.a  zombi." 
(You  pass  along  the  high-road  at  night,  and  you  see  a 
great  fire,  and  the  more  you  walk  to  get  to  it  the  more  it 
moves  away:  it  is  the  zombi  makes  that.  ...  Or  a  horse 
with  only  three  legs  passes  you :  that  is*a  zombi.) 


La  Guiablcsse.  189 

— "  How  big  is  the  fire  that  the  zombi  makes  ?"  I  ask. 

—"It  fills  the  whole  road,"  answers  Thereza :  "li  ka 
rempli  toutt  chimin-la.  Folk  call  those  fires  the  Evil 
Fires, — maiivai  dife; — and  if  you  follow  them  they  will 
lead  you  into  chasms, — ou  ke  tombe  adans  labtme".  .  . 

And  then  she  tells  me  this : 

— "  Baidaux  was  a  mad  man  of  color  who  used  to  live 
at  St.  Pierre,  in  the  Street  of  the  Precipice.  He  was 
not  dangerous, — never  did  any  harm; — his  sister  used 
to  take  care  of  him.  And  what  I  am  going  to  relate  is 
true,— fe  zhistoue  veritabe! 

"One  day  Baidaux  said  to  his  sister:  *  Moin  ni  yonne 
yche,va! — ou  pa  connaitt  li!'  [I  have  a  child,  ah! — you 
never  saw  it !]  His  sister  paid  no  attention  to  what  he 
said  that  day;  but  the  next  day  he  said  it  again,  and  the 
next,  and  the  next,  and  every  day  after, — so  that  his  sis- 
ter at  last  became  much  annoyed  by  it,  and  used  to  cry 
out:  'Ah!  mais  pe  guiole  ou,  Baidaux!  ou  fou  pou  em- 
bete  moin  conm  c.a  ! — ou  bien  fou  !'.  .  .  But  he  tormented 
her  that  way  for  months  and  for  years. 

"  One  evening  he  went  out,  and  only  came  home  at 
midnight  leading  a  child  by  the  hand, — a  black  child  he 
had  found  in  the  street;  and  he  said  to  his  sister:— 

"  *  Mi  yche-la  moin  mene  ba  ou  !  Tou  lejou  moin  te 
ka  di  ou  moin  tini  yonne  yche :  ou  pa  te  'le  coue, — eh, 
ben  !  MI  Y  !'  [Look  at  the  child  I  have  brought  you ! 
Every  day  I  have  been  telling  you  I  had  a  child  :  you 
would  not  believe  me, — very  well,  LOOK  AT  HIM  !] 

"  The  sister  gave  one  look,  and  cried  out :  '  Baidaux, 
oti  ou  pouend  yche-la  ?'  .  .  .  For  the  child  was  growing 
taller  and  taller  every  moment.  .  .  .  And  Baidaux, — be- 
cause he  was  mad, — kept  saying:  '  Qe  yche  -  moin  !  c.e 
yche  moin  !'  [It  is  my  child!] 

"  And  the  sister  threw  open  the  shutters  and  screamed 
to  all  the  neighbors, — '  Secou,  secou,  secou !  Vint  out  fa 


190  Martinique  Sketches. 

Baidaux  mem  ba  moin  /'  [Help  !  help  !  Come  see  what 
Baidaux  has  brought  in  here !]  And  the  child  said  to 
Baidaux:  '  Ou  ni  bonhe  ou  fouT  [You  are  lucky  that 
you  are  mad !]  .  .  .  Then  all  the  neighbors  came  running 
in ;  but  they  could  not  see  anything :  the  Zombi  was 
gone.".  .  . 

III. 

...  As  I  was  saying,  the  hours  of  vastest  light  have 
their  weirdness  here  ; — and  it  is  of  a  Something  which 
walketh  abroad  under  the  eye  of  the  sun,  even  at  high 
noontide,  that  I  desire  to  speak,  while  the  impressions 
of  a  morning  journey  to  the  scene  of  Its  last  alleged 
apparition  yet  remains  vivid  in  my  recollection. 

You  follow  the  mountain  road  leading  from  Calebasse 
over  long  meadowed  levels  two  thousand  feet  above  the 
ocean,  into  the  woods  of  La  Couresse,  where  it  begins  to 
descend  slowly,  through  deep  green  shadowing,  by  great 
zigzags.  Then,  at  a  turn,  you  find  yourself  unexpected- 
ly looking  down  upon  a  planted  valley,  through  plumy 
fronds  of  arborescent  fern.  The  surface  below  seems 
almost  like  a  lake  of  gold-green  water, — especially  when 
long  breaths  of  mountain-wind  set  the  miles  of  ripen- 
ing cane  a- ripple  from  verge  to  verge:  the  illusion  is 
marred  only  by  the  road,  fringed  with  young  cocoa- 
palms,  which  serpentines  across  the  luminous  plain. 
East,  west,  and  north  the  horizon  is  almost  wholly 
hidden  by  surging  of  hills :  those  nearest  are  softly 
shaped  and  exquisitely  green  ;  above  them  loftier  undu- 
lations take  hazier  verdancy  and  darker  shadows ;  far- 
ther yet  rise  silhouettes  of  blue  or  violet  tone,  with  one 
beautiful  breast-shaped  peak  thrusting  up  in  the  midst; — 
while,  westward,  over  all,  topping  even  the  Piton,  is  a 
vapory  huddling  of  prodigious  shapes  —  wrinkled,  fis- 
sured, horned,  fantastically  tall.  .  .  .  Such  at  least  are 
the  tints  of  the  morning.  .  .  .  Here  and  there,  between 


La  Guiablesse.  191 

gaps  in  the  volcanic  chain,  the  land  hollows  into  gorges, 
slopes  down  into  ravines; — and  the  sea's  vast  disk  of 
turquoise  flames  up  through  the  interval.  Southwardly 
those  deep  woods,  through  which  the  way  winds  down, 
shut  in  the  view.  .  .  .  You  do  not  see  the  plantation 
buildings  till  you  have  advanced  some  distance  into  the 
valley; — they  are  hidden  by  a  fold  of  the  land,  and 
stand  in  a  little  hollow  where  the  road  turns  :  a  great 
quadrangle  of  low  gray  antiquated  edifices,  heavily 
walled  and  buttressed,  and  roofed  with  red  tiles.  The 
court  they  form  opens  upon  the  main  route  by  an  im- 
mense archway.  Farther  along  ajoupas  begin  to  line 
the  way, — the  dwellings  of  the  field  hands, — tiny  cot- 
tages built  with  trunks  of  the  arborescent  fern  or  with 
stems  of  bamboo,  and  thatched  with  cane-straw :  each 
in  a  little  garden  planted  with  bananas,  yams,  couscous, 
camanioc,  choux-caraibes,  or  other  things, — and  hedged 
about  with  roseaux  d'Inde  and  various  flowering  shrubs. 
Thereafter,  only  the  high  whispering  wildernesses  of 
cane  on  either  hand, —  the  white  silent  road  winding 
between  its  swaying  cocoa-trees, —  and  the  tips  of  hills 
that  seem  to  glide  on  before  you  as  you  walk,  and  that 
take,  with  the  deepening  of  the  afternoon  light,  such  ame- 
thystine color  as  if  they  were  going  to  become  trans- 
parent. 

IV. 

...  IT  is  a  breezeless  and  cloudless  noon.  Under 
the  dazzling  downpour  of  light  the  hills  seem  to  smoke 
blue  :  something  like  a  thin  yellow  fog  haloes  the  leagues 
of  ripening  cane,— a  vast  reflection.  There  is  no  stir  in 
all  the  green  mysterious  front  of  the  vine-veiled  woods. 
The  palms  of  the  roads  keep  their  heads  quite  still,  as  if 
listening.  The  canes  do  not  utter  a  single  susurration. 
Rarely  is  there  such  absolute  stillness  among  them : 
upon  the  calmest  days  there  are  usually  rustlings  audi- 
10 


192  ,      Martinique  Sketches. 

ble,  thin  cracklings,  faint  creepings :  sounds  that  betray 
the  passing  of  some  little  animal  or  reptile — a  rat  or  a 
manicou,  or  a  zanoli  or  couresse, — more  often,  however, 
no  harmless  lizard  or  snake,  but  the  te&dky  fer-de-lance. 
To-day,  all  these  seem  to  sleep ;  and  there  are  no  work- 
ers among  the  cane  to  clear  away  the  weeds, — to  uproot 
faz pik-treffe, pti-poule, pik-balai)  zhebe-en-me :  it  is  the  hour 
of  rest. 

A  woman  is  coming  along  the  road, —  young,  very 
swarthy,  very  tall,  and  barefooted,  and  black-robed :  she 
wears  a  high  white  turban  with  dark  stripes,  and  a  white 
foulard  is  thrown  about  her  fine  shoulders ;  she  bears  no 
burden,  and  walks  very  swiftly  and  noiselessly.  .  .  .  Sound- 
less as  shadow  the  motion  of  all  these  naked-footed  peo- 
ple is.  On  any  quiet  mountain-way,  full  of  curves,  where 
you  fancy  yourself  alone,  you  may  often  be  startled  by 
something  you  fee/,  rather  than  hear,  behind  you, — surd 
steps,  the  springy  movement  of  a  long  lithe  body,  dumb 
oscillations  of  raiment; — and  ere  you  can  turn  to  look, 
the  haunter  swiftly  passes  with  creole  greeting  of  "  bon- 
jou'  "  or  "  bonsoue,  MissieV'  This  sudden  "  becoming 
aware  "  in  broad  daylight  of  a  living  presence  unseen  is 
even  more  disquieting  than  that  sensation  which,  in  ab- 
solute darkness,  makes  one  halt  all  breathlessly  before 
great  solid  objects,  whose  proximity  has  been  revealed 
by  some  mute  blind  emanation  of  force  alone.  But  it  is 
very  seldom,  indeed,  that  the  negro  or  half-breed  is  thus 
surprised  :  he  seems  to  divine  an  advent  by  some  spe- 
cialized sense, —  like  an  animal, —  and  to  become  con- 
scious of  a  look  directed  upon  him  from  any  distance 
or  from  behind  any  covert ;— to  pass  within  the  range 
of  his  keen  vision  unnoticed  is  almost  impossible.  .  .  . 
And  the  approach  of  this  woman  has  been  already  ob- 
served by  the  habitants  of  the  ajoupas  ; — dark  faces  peer 
out  from  windows  and  door-ways  ; — one  half-nude  labor- 
er even  strolls  out  to  the  road-side  under  the  sun  to 


La  Guiablesse.  193 

watch  her  coming.  He  looks  a  moment,  turns  to  the  hut 
again,  and  calls : — 

— "  Ou-ou  !     Fafa  !" 

— "Eti!     Gabou!" 

— "  Vini  ti  bouin  ! — mi  bel  negresse  !" 

Out  rushes  Fafa,  with  his  huge  straw  hat  in  his  hand : 
"Oti,  Gabou?" 

—"Mi!" 

— "  Ah  !  quimbe  moin !"  cries  black  Fafa,  enthusiasti- 
cally; "fouinq!  li  bel! — Jesis-Maia !  li  doux  !".  .  .  Nei- 
ther ever  saw  that  wroman  before ;  and  both  feel  as  if 
they  could  watch  her  forever. 

There  is  something  superb  in  the  port  of  a  tall  young 
mountain-griffone,  or  negress,  who  is  comely  and  knows 
that  she  is  comely :  it  is  a  black  poem  of  artless  dignity, 
primitive  grace,  savage  exultation  of  movement.  ..."  Ou 
marche  tete  enlai  conm  couresse  qui  ka  passe  larivie  " 
(  You  walk  with  your  head  in  the  air,  like  the  couresse-serpent 
swimming  a  river]  is  a  Creole  comparison  which  pictures 
perfectly  the  poise  of  her  neck  and  chin.  And  in  her  walk 
there  is  also  a  serpentine  elegance,  a  sinuous  charm :  the 
shoulders  do  not  swing  ;  the  cambered  torso  seems  im- 
mobile; —  but  alternately  from  waist  to  heel,  and  from 
heel  to  waist,  with  each  long  full  stride,  an  indescribable 
undulation  seems  to  pass ;  while  the  folds  of  her  loose 
robe  oscillate  to  right  and  left  behind  her,  in  perfect  libra- 
tion,  with  the  free  swaying  of  the  hips.  With  us,  only  a 
finely  trained  dancer  could  attempt  such  a  walk ; — with 
the  Martinique  woman  of  color  it  is  natural  as  the  tint  of 
her  skin ;  and  this  allurement  of  motion  unrestrained  is 
most  marked  in  those  who  have  never  worn  shoes,  and  are 
clad  lightly  as  the  women  of  antiquity, — in  two  very  thin 
and  simple  garments; — chemise  and  robe-d*  indienne.  .  .  . 
But  whence  is  she  ? — of  what  canton  ?  Not  from  Vau- 
clin,  nor  from  Lamentin,  nor  from  Marigot, — from  Case- 
Pilote  or  from  Case-Navire :  Fafa  knows  all  the  people 


194  Martinique  Sketches. 

there.  '  Never  of  Sainte-Anne,  nor  of  Sainte-Luce,  nor  of 
Sainte-Marie,  nor  of  Diamant,  nor  of  Gros-Morne,  nor  of 
Carbet, —  the  birthplace  of  Gabou.  Neither  is  she  of 
the  village  of  the  Abysms,  which  is  in  the  Parish  of  the 
Preacher, — nor  yet  of  Ducos  nor  of  Frangois,  which  are 
in  the  Commune  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  .  .  . 


V. 

.  .  .  SHE  approaches  the  ajoupa :  both  men  remove 
their  big  straw  hats ;  and  both  salute  her  with  a  simul- 
taneous "  Bonjou',  Manzell." 

— "  Bonjou',  Missie,"  she  responds,  in  a  sonorous  alto, 
without  appearing  to  notice  Gabou, — but  smiling  upon 
Fafa  as  she  passes,  with  her  great  eyes  turned  full  upon 
his  face.  .  .  .  All  the  libertine  blood  of  the  man  flames 
under  that  look  ; — he  feels  as  if  momentarily  wrapped  in  a 
blaze  of  black  lightning. 

— "  Qa  ka  fai  moin  pe,"  exclaims  Gabou,  turning  his 
face  towards  the  ajoupa.  Something  indefinable  in  the 
gaze  of  the  stranger  has  terrified  him. 

— "Pa  ka  fai  moin  pe—fouinq  /"  (She  does  not  make 
me  afraid)  laughs  Fafa,  boldly  following  her  with  a  smil- 
ing swagger. 

— "  Fafa  !"  cries  Gabou,  in  alarm.     "Fafa,  pa  fai  faf" 

But  Fafa  does  not  heed.  The  strange  woman  has 
slackened  her  pace,  as  if  inviting  pursuit ; — another  mo- 
ment and  he  is  at  her  side. 

— "  Oti  ou  ka  rete,  che  ?"  he  demands,  with  the  boldness 
of  one  who  knows  himself  a  fine  specimen  of  hi-s  race. 

— "  Zaffai  cabritt  pa  zaffai  lapin,"  she  answers,  mock- 
ingly. 

— "  Mais  pouki  ou  rhabille  toutt  noue  conm  c.a." 

— "  Moin  pote  deil  pou  name  moin  mo." 

— "A'ie  ya  ya'ie!  .  .  .  Non,voue! — c,a  ou  kalle  atouele- 
ment?" 


La  Guiablesse.  195 

— "  Lanmou  pati :  moin  pkti  dele  lanmou." 

— "  Ho  ! — ou  ni  guepe,  anh  ?" 

— "  Zanoli  bail  yon  bal ;  epi  maboya  rentre  ladans." 

— "  Di  moin  oti  ou  kalle,  doudoux  ?" 

— "  Jouq  larivie  Leza." 

— "  Fouinq  ! — ni  plis  passe  trente  kilomett !" 

— "  Eh  ben  ?— ess  ou  'le  vini  e'pi  moin  ?"* 

And  as  she  puts  the  question  she  stands  still  and 
gazes  at  him ; — her  voice  is  no  longer  mocking :  it  has 
taken  another  tone, — a  tone  soft  as  the  long  golden  note 
of  the  little  brown  bird  they  call  the  siffleur-de-montagne^ 
the  mountain-whistler.  .  .  .  Yet  Fafa  hesitates.  He  hears 
the  clear  clang  of  the  plantation  bell  recalling  him  to 
duty;  —  he  sees  far  down  the  road  —  (Ouill 7  how  fast 
they  have  been  walking!) — a  white  and  black  speck  in 
the  sun  :  Gabou,  uttering  through  his  joined  hollowed 
hands,  as  through  a  horn,  the  oukle,  the  rally  call.  For 
an  instant  he  thinks  of  the  overseer's  anger, — of  the  dis- 
tance,— of  the  white  road  glaring  in  the  dead  heat :  then 
he  looks  again  into  the  black  eyes  of  the  strange  wom- 
an, and  answers  : 

— "Oui; — moin  ke  vini  epi  ou." 

With  a  burst  of  mischievous  laughter,  in  which  Fafa 
joins,  she  walks  on, — Fafa  striding  at  her  side.  .  .  .  And 
Gabou,  far  off,  watches  them  go, — and  wonders  that,  for 


*  — "Where  dost  stay,  dear?" 

— "  Affairs  of  the  goat  are  not  affairs  of  the  rabbit." 

— "But  why  art  thou  dressed  all  in  black  thus?" 

— "I  wear  mourning  for  my  dead  soul." 

— "Aieyaya'ie!.  .  .  No,  true  !  .  .  .  where  art  thou  going  now?" 

— "Love  is  gone:  I  go  after  love." 

— "  Ho!  thou  hast  a  Wasp  [lover] — eh?" 

— "The  zanoli  gives  a  ball;  the  maboya  enters  unasked." 

— "Tell  me  where  thou  art  going,  sweetheart?" 

— !1As  far  as  the  River  of  the  Lizard." 

— "  Fouinq! — there  are  more  than  thirty  kilometres!" 

—"What  of  that? — dost  thou  want,  to  come  with  me?" 


196  Martinique  Sketches. 

the  first  time  since  ever  they  worked  together,  his  com- 
rade failed  to  answer  his  oukle. 

— "  Coument  yo  ka  crie  ou,  che  ?"  asks  Fafa,  curious 
to  know  her  name. 

— "  Chache  nom  moin  ou-menm,  duvine." 

But  Fafa  never  was  a  good  guesser,  —  never  could 
guess  the  simplest  of  tim-tim. 

— "  Ess  Cendrine  ?" 

— "  Non,  ^e  pa  c^a." 

— "  Ess  Vitaline  ?" 

— "  Non,  96  pa  ga." 

— "  Ess  Aza  ?" 

— "  Non,  96  pa  9a." 

—"Ess  Nini?" 

—"Chache  enco." 

— "  Ess  Tite  ?" 

— "  Ou  pa  save, — tant  pis  pou  ou  !" 

— "  Ess  Youma  ?" 

— "  Pouki  ou  'le  save  nom  moin  ?  —  c,a  ou  ke  fai 
epiy?" 

— "  Ess  Yaiya  ?" 

—"Non,  96  pay." 

— "  Ess  Maiyotte  ?" 

— "Non!  ou  pa  ke  janmain  trouve  y!" 

— "  Ess  Sounoune  ? — ess  Loulouze  ?" 

She  does  not  answer,  but  quickens  her  pace  and  be- 
gins to  sing,— not  as  the  half-breed,  but  as  the  African 
sings, — commencing  with  a  low  long  weird  intonation 
that  suddenly  breaks  into  fractions  of  notes  inexpressi- 
ble, then  rising  all  at  once  to  a  liquid  purling  bird- 
tone,  and  descending  as  abruptly  again  to  the  first  deep 
quavering  strain  :— 

"A  te— 

moin  ka  domi  toute  longue ; 
Yon  paillasse  se  fai  moin  bien, 
Doudoux ! 


La  Guiablesse.  197 

A  te— 

moin  ka  domi  toute  longue ; 
Yon  robe  biese  se  fai  moin  bien, 

Doudoux  ! 
A  te— 

moin  ka  domi  toute  longue ; 
De  jolis  foula  se  fai  moin  bien, 

Doudoux  ! 
A  te- 

moin  ka  domi  toute  longue ; 
Yon  joli  madras  se  fai  moin  bien, 

Doudoux ! 
A  te— 

moin  ka  domi  toute  longue : 
e  a  te  .  .  ." 


.  .  .  Obliged  from  the  first  to  lengthen  his  stride  in 
order  to  keep  up  with  her,  Fafa  has  found  his  utmost 
powers  of  walking  overtaxed,  and  has  been  left  behind. 
Already  his  thin  attire  is  saturated  with  sweat ;  his 
breathing  is  almost  a  panting ; — yet  the  black  bronze  of 
his  companion's  skin  shows  no  moisture ;  her  rhythmic 
step,  her  silent  respiration,  reveal  no  effort :  she  laughs 
at  his  desperate  straining  to  remain  by  her  side. 

— "  March e  toujou'  deie  moin, — anh,  che?  —  marche 
toujou'  deie  !"  .  .  . 

And  the  involuntary  laggard — utterly  bewitched  by 
the  supple  allurement  of  her  motion,  by  the  black  flame 
of  her  gaze,  by  the  savage  melody  of  her  chant — won- 
ders more  and  more  who  she  may  be,  while  she  waits 
for  him  with  her  mocking  smile. 

But  Gabou — who  has  been  following  and  watching 
from  afar  off,  and  sounding  his  fruitless  oukle  betimes — 
suddenly  starts,  halts,  turns,  and  hurries  back,  fearfully 
crossing  himself  at  every  step. 

He  has  seen  the  sign  by  which  She  is  known.  .  ,  „ 


198  Martinique  Sketches. 


VI. 

.  .  .  NONE  ever  saw  her  by  night.  Her  hour  is  the 
fulness  of  the  sun's  flood-tide :  she  comes  in  the  dead 
hush  and  white  flame  of  windless  noons, — when  colors 
appear  to  take  a  very  unearthliness  of  intensity, — when 
even  the  flash  of  some  colibri,  bosomed  with  living  fire, 
shooting  hither  and  thither  among  the  grenadilla  blos- 
soms, seemeth  a  spectral  happening  because  of  the  great 
green  trance  of  the  land.  .  .  . 

Mostly  she  haunts  the  mountain  roads,  winding  from 
plantation  to  plantation,  from  hamlet  to  hamlet, — some- 
times dominating  huge  sweeps  of  azure  sea,  sometimes 
shadowed  by  mornes  deep -wooded  to  the  sky.  But 
close  to  the  great  towns  she  sometimes  walks  :  she  has 
been  seen  at  mid-day  upon  the  highway  which  overlooks 
the  Cemetery  of  the  Anchorage,  behind  the  cathedral 
of  St.  Pierre.  ...  A  black  Woman,  simply  clad,  of  lofty 
stature  and  strange  beauty,  silently  standing  in  the  light, 
keeping  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  Sun  / .  .  . 


VII. 

DAY  wanes.  The  further  western  altitudes  shift  their 
pearline  gray  to  deep  blue  where  the  sky  is  yellowing  up 
behind  them ;  and  in-  the  darkening  hollows  of  nearer 
mornes  strange  shadows  gather  with  the  changing  of  the 
light — dead  indigoes,  fuliginous  purples,  rubifications  as 
of  scoriae, —  ancient  volcanic  colors  momentarily  resur- 
rected by  the  illusive  haze  of  evening.  And  the  fallow 
of  the  canes  takes  a  faint  warm  ruddy  tinge.  On  cer- 
tain far  high  slopes,  as  the  sun  lowers,  they  look  like 
thin  golden  hairs  against  the  glow, — blond  down  upon 
the  skin  of  the  living  hills. 

Still  the  Woman  and  her  follower  walk  together,— 
chatting  loudly,  laughing,  chanting  snatches  of  song  be- 


La  Guiablesse.  199 

times.  And  now  the  valley  is  well  behind  them ; — they 
climb  the  steep  road  crossing  the  eastern  peaks, — through 
woods  that  seem  to  stifle  under  burdening  of  creepers. 
The  shadow  of  the  Woman  and  the  shadow  of  the  man,— 
broadening  from  their  feet, — lengthening  prodigiously,— 
sometimes,  mixing,  fill  all  the  way;  sometimes,  at  a  turn, 
rise  up  to  climb  the  trees.  Huge  masses  of  frondage, 
catching  the  failing  light,  take  strange  fiery  color; — the 
sun's  rim  almost  touches  one  violet  hump  in  the  western 
procession  of  volcanic  silhouettes.  ... 

Sunset,  in  the  tropics,  is  vaster  than  sunrise.  .  .  .  The 
dawn,  upflaming  swiftly  from  the  sea,  has  no  heralding 
erubescence,  no  awful  blossoming — as  in  the  North :  its 
fairest  hues  are  fawn-colors,  dove-tints,  and  yellows,— 
pale  yellows  as  of  old  dead  gold,  in  horizon  and  flood. 
But  after  the  mighty  heat  of  day  has  charged  all  the 
blue  air  with  translucent  vapor,  colors  become  strange- 
ly changed,  magnified,  transcendentalized  when  the  sun 
falls  once  more  below  the  verge  of  visibility.  Nearly  an 
hour  before  his  death,  his  light  begins  to  turn  tint ;  and 
all  the  horizon  yellows  to  the  color  of  a  lemon.  Then 
this  hue  deepens,  through  tones  of  magnificence  unspeak- 
able, into  orange ;  and  the  sea  becomes  lilac.  Orange  is 
the  light  of  the  world  for  a  little  space ;  and  as  the  orb 
sinks,  the  indigo  darkness  comes — not  descending,  but 
rising,  as  if  from  the  ground — all  within  a  few  minutes. 
And  during  those  brief  minutes  peaks  and  mornes,  pur- 
pling into  richest  velvety  blackness,  appear  outlined 
against  passions  of  fire  that  rise  half-way  to  the  ze- 
nith,— enormous  furies  of  vermilion. 

.  .  .  The  Woman  all  at  once  leaves  the  main  road, — be- 
gins to  mount  a  steep  narrow  path  leading  up  from  it 
through  the  woods  upon  the  left.  But  Fafa  hesitates, — 
halts  a  moment  to  look  back,  He  sees  the  sun's  huge 


2OO  Martinique  Sketches. 

orange  face  sink  down, — sees  the  weird  procession  of 
the  peaks  vesture  themselves  in  blackness  funereal,— 
sees  the  burning  behind  them  crimson  into  awfulness ; 
and  a  vague  fear  comes  upon  him  as  he  looks  again  up 
the  darkling  path  to  the  left.  Whither  is  she  now  going  ? 

— "  Oti  ou  kalle  la  ?"  he  cries. 

— "Mais  conm  c.a! — chimin  talaplis  cou't, — coument?" 

It  may  be  the  shortest  route,  indeed; — but  then,  the 
fer-de-lance !  .  .  : 

— "  Ni  sepent  ciya, — en  pile." 

No :  there  is  not  a  single  one,  she  avers ;  she  has  taken 
that  path  too  often  not  to  know : 

— "  Pa  ni  sepent  piess  !  Moin  ni  coutime  passe  la; — 
pa  ni  piess  !" 

.  .  .  She  leads  the  way.  .  .  .  Behind  them  the  tremen- 
dous glow  deepens ; — before  them  the  gloom.  Enormous 
gnarled  forms  of  ceiba,  balata,  acoma,  stand  dimly  reveal- 
ed as  they  pass ;  masses  of  viny  drooping  things  take,  by 
the  failing  light,  a  sanguine  tone.  For  a  little  while  Fafa 
can  plainly  discern  the  figure  of  the  Woman  before  him  ;— 
then,  as  the  path  zigzags  into  shadow,  he  can  descry  only 
the  white  turban  and  the  white  foulard; — and  then  the 
boughs  meet  overhead :  he  can  see  her  no  more,  and  calls 
to  her  in  alarm  : — 

• — "Oti  ou? — moin  pa  pe  one  arien!" 

Forked  pending  ends  of  creepers  trail  cold  across  his 
face.  Huge  fire-flies  sparkle  by, — like  atoms  of  kindled 
charcoal  thinkling,  blown  by  a  wind. 

— "Igitt! — quimbe  lanmain-moin !".  .  . 

How  cold  the  hand  that  guides  him !  .  .  .  She  walks 
swiftly,  surely,  as  one  knowing  the  path  by  heart.  It 
zigzags  once  more;  and  the  incandescent  color  flames 
again  between  the  trees; — the  high  vaulting  of  foliage 
fissures  overhead,  revealing  the  first  stars.  A  cabritt- 
bois  begins  its  chant.  They  reach  the  summit  of  the 
morne  under  the  clear  sky. 


La  Guiablesse.  201 

The  wood  is  below  their  feet  now;  the  path  curves 
on  eastward  between  a  long  swaying  of  ferns  sable  in 
the  gloom, —  as  between  a  waving  of  prodigious  black 
feathers.  Through  the  further  purpling,  loftier  altitudes 
dimly  loom;  arid  from  some  viewless  depth,  a  dull  vast 
rushing  sound  rises  into  the  night.  ...  Is  it  the  speech  of 
hurrying  waters,  or  only  some  tempest  of  insect  voices 
from  those  ravines  in  which  the  night  begins  ?  .  .  . 

Her  face  is  in  the  darkness  as  she  stands; — Fafa's  eyes 
are  turned  to  the  iron-crimson  of  the  western  sky.  He 
still  holds  her  hand,  fondles  it, — murmurs  something  to 
her  in  undertones. 

— "Ess  ou  ainmein  moin  conm  Qa?"  she  asks,  almost 
in  a  whisper. 

Oh!  yes,  yes,  yes  !  .  .  .  more  than  any  living  being  he 
loves  her! .  .  .  How  much?  Ever  so  much, — goubs  conm 
caze!  .  .  .  Yet  she  seems  to  doubt  him, —  repeating  her 
question  over  and  over: 

— "  Ess  ou  ainmein  moin  ?" 

And  all  the  while, —  gently,  caressingly,  impercepti- 
bly,—  she  draws  him  a  little  nearer  to  the  side  of  the 
path,  nearer  to  the  black  waving  of  the  ferns,  nearer  to 
the  great  dull  rushing  sound  that  rises  from  beyond  them : 

— "  Ess  ou  ainmein  moin?" 

— "Oui,  oui!"  he  responds, — "ou  save  ^a  ! — oui,  che 
doudoux,  ou  save  c,a !".  .  . 

And  she,  suddenly, — turning  at  once  to  him  and  to  the 
last  red  light,  the  goblin  horror  of  her  face  transformed, — 
shrieks  with  a  burst  of  hideous  laughter: 

—"Ati>,  bo!"* 

For  the  fraction  of  a  moment  he  knows  her  name : — 
then,  smitten  to  the  brain  with  the  sight  of  her,  reels,  re- 
coils, and,  backward  falling,  crashes  two  thousand  feet 
down  to  his  death  upon  the  rocks  of  a  mountain  torrent. 

*  "  Kiss  me  now  !" 


LA  VERETTE. 

—ST.  PIERRE,  1887. 

ONE  returning  from  the  country  to  the  city  in  the 
Carnival  season  is  lucky  to  find  any  comfortable  rooms 
for  rent.  I  have  been  happy  to  secure  one  even  in  a 
rather  retired  street, — so  steep  that  it  is  really  dangerous 
to  sneeze  while  descending  it,  lest  one  lose  one's  balance 
and  tumble  right  across  the  town.  It  is  not  a  fash- 
ionable street,  the  Rue  du  Morne  Mirail:  but,  after  all, 
there  is  no  particularly  fashionable  street  in  this  extraor- 
dinary city,  and  the  poorer  the  neighborhood,  the  better 
one's  chance  to  see  something  of  its  human  nature. 

One  consolation  is  that  I  have  Manm-Robert  for  a 
next-door  neighbor,  who  keeps  the  best  bouts  in  town 
(those  long  thin  Martinique  cigars  of  which  a  stranger 
soon  becomes  fond),  and  who  can  relate  more  queer 
stories  and  legends  of  old  times  in  the  island  than  any- 
body else  I  know  of.  Manm-Robert  is  yon  machanne 
lapacotte,  a  dealer  in  such  cheap  articles  of  food  as  the 
poor  live  upon  :  fruits  and  tropical  vegetables,  manioc- 
flour,  "macadam"  (a  singular  dish  of  rice  stewed  with 
salt  fish — diri  kpi  coubouyon  lamori),  akras,  etc. ;  but  her 
bouts  probably  bring  her  the  largest  profit — they  are  all 
bought  up  by  the  bekes.  Manm-Robert  is  also  a  sort  of 
doctor :  whenever  any  one  in  the  neighborhood  falls 
sick  she  is  sent  for,  and  always  comes,  and  very  often 
cures, —  as  she  is  skilled  in  the  knowledge  and  use 
of  medicinal  herbs,  which  she  gathers  herself  upon  the 
mornes.  But  for  these  services  she  never  accepts  any 


La   Verette.  203 

remuneration  :  she  is  a  sort  of  Mother  of  the  poor  in 
her  immediate  vicinity.  She  helps  everybody,  listens  to 
everybody's  troubles,  gives  everybody  some  sort  of  con- 
solation, trusts  everybody,  and  sees  a  great  deal  of  the 
thankless  side  of  human  nature  without  seeming  to  feel 
any  the  worse  for  it.  Poor  as  she  must  really  be  she 
appears  to  have  everything  that  everybody  wants ;  and 
will  lend  anything  to  her  neighbors  except  a  scissors  or  a 
broom,  which  it  is  thought  bad-luck  to  lend.  And,  finally, 
if  anybody  is  afraid  of  being  bewitched  (guimboisG)  Manm- 
Robert  can  furnish  him  or  her  with  something  that  will 
keep  the  bewitchment  away.  .  .  . 


111  February  15th. 

.  .  .  ASH-WEDNESDAY.  The  last  masquerade  will  ap- 
pear this  afternoon,  notwithstanding;  for  the  Carnival 
lasts  in  Martinique  a  day  longer  than  elsewhere. 

All  through  the  country  districts  since  the  first  week 
of  January  there  have  been  wild  festivities  every  Sunday 
— dancing  on  the  public  highways  to  the  pattering  of 
tamtams, —  African  dancing,  too,  such  as  is  never  seen 
in  St.  Pierre.  In  the  city,  however,  there  has  been  less 
merriment  than  in  previous  years  ; — the  natural  gaiety 
of  the  population  has  been  visibly  affected  by  the  advent 
of  a  terrible  and  unfamiliar  visitor  to  the  island, — La 
Verette :  she  came  by  steamer  from  Colon, 

...  It  was  in  September.  Only  two  cases  had  been 
reported  when  every  neighboring  British  colony  quaran- 
tined against  Martinique.  Then  other  West  Indian  col- 
onies did  likewise.  Only  two  cases  of  small-pox.  "  But 
there  may  be  two  thousand  in  another  month,"  answered 
the  governors  and  the  consuls  to  many  indignant  pro- 
tests. Among  West  Indian  populations  the  malady  has 
a  signification  unknown  in  Europe  or  the  United  States  : 
it  means  an  exterminating  plague. 


2O4  Martinique  Sketches. 

Two  months  later  the  little  capital  of  Fort-de-France 
was  swept  by  the  pestilence  as  by  a  wind  of  death.  Then 
the  evil  began  to  spread.  It  entered  St.  Pierre  in  De- 
cember, about  Christmas  time.  Last  week  173  cases 
were  reported  ;  and  a  serious  epidemic  is  almost  certain. 
There  were  only  8500  inhabitants  in  Fort -de- France  : 
there  are  28,000  in  the  three  quarters  of  St.  Pierre  proper, 
not  including  her  suburbs ;  and  there  is  no  saying  what 
ravages  the  disease  may  make  here. 


III. 

.  .  .  THREE  o'clock,  hot  and  clear.  ...  In  the  distance 
there  is  a  heavy  sound  of  drums,  always  drawing  nearer: 
tarn! — tarn! — tamtamtam  !  The  Grande  Rue  is  lined 
with  expectant  multitudes  ;  and  its  tiny  square, — the  Bat- 
terie  d'Esnotz, — thronged  with  bekes.  Tarn! — tarn! — 
tamtamtam  / ...  In  our  own  street  the  people  are  begin- 
ning to  gather  at  door-ways,  and  peer  out  of  windows, — 
prepared  to  descend  to  the  main  thoroughfare  at  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  procession. 

— "  Oti  masque-a  ?"     Where  are  the  maskers  ? 

It  is  little  Mimi's  voice  :  she  is  speaking  for  two  be- 
sides herself,  both  quite  as  anxious  as  she  to  know  where 
the  maskers  are, — Maurice,  her  little  fair-haired  and  blue- 
eyed  brother,  three  years  old ;  and  Gabrielle,  her  child- 
sister,  aged  four, — two  years  her  junior. 

Every  day  I  have  been  observing  the  three,  playing  in 
the  door-way  of  the  house  across  the  street.  Mimi,  with 
her  brilliant  white  skin,  black  hair,  and  laughing  black 
eyes,  is  the  prettiest, — though  all  are  unusually  pretty  chil- 
dren. Were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  their  mother's  beautiful 
brown  hair  is  usually  covered  with  a  violet  foulard,  you 
would  certainly  believe  them  white  as  any  children  in  the 
world.  Now  there  are  children  whom  every  one  knows  to 
be  white,  living  not  very  far  from  here,  but  in  a  much  more 


La  Verette.  205 

silent  street,  and  in  a  rich  house  full  of  servants, — chil- 
dren who  resemble  these  as  one  flenr-d^ amour  blossom  re- 
sembles another ; — there  is  actually  another  Mimi  (though 
she  is  not  so  called  at  home)  so  like  this  Mimi  that  you 
could  not  possibly  tell  one  from  the  other, — except  by 
their  dress.  And  yet  the  most  unhappy  experience  of 
the  Mimi  who  wears  white  satin  slippers  was  certainly 
that  punishment  given  her  for  having  been  once  caught 
playing  in  the  street  with  this  Mimi,  who  wears  no  shoes 
at  all.  What  mischance  could  have  brought  them  thus 
together  ? — and  the  worst  of  it  was  they  had  fallen  in  love 
with  each  other  at  first  sight !  ...  It  was  not  because 
the  other  Mimi  must  not  talk  to  nice  little  colored  girls, 
or  that  this  one  may  not  play  with  white  children  of  her 
own  age :  it  was  because  there  are  cases.  ...  It  was  not 
because  the  other  children  I  speak  of  are  prettier  or 
sweeter  or  more  intelligent  than  these  now  playing  be- 
fore me  ; — or  because  the  finest  microscopist  in  the  world 
could  or  could  not  detect  any  imaginable  race  difference 
between  those  delicate  satin  skins.  It  was  only  because 
human  nature  has  little  changed  since  the  day  that  Hagar 
knew  the  hate  of  Sarah,  and  the  thing  was  grievous  in 
Abraham's  sight  because  of  his  son.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  father  of  these  children  loved  them  very 
much :  he  had  provided  a  home  for  them, — a  house  in 
the  Quarter  of  the  Fort,  with  an  allowance  of  two  hun- 
dred francs  monthly ;  and  he-  died  in  the  belief  their 
future  was  secured.  But  relatives  fought  the  will  with 
large  means  and  shrewd  lawyers,  and  won  !  .  .  .  Yzore, 
the  mother,  found  herself  homeless  and  penniless,  with 
three  children  to  care  for.  But  she  was  brave; — she 
abandoned  the  costume  of  the  upper  class  forever,  put 
on  the  douillette  and  the  foulard, — the  attire  that  is  a 
confession  of  race,  —  and  went  to  work.  She  is  still 
comely,  and  so  white  that  she  seems  only  to  be  masquer- 
ading in  that  violet  head-dress  and  long  loose  robe.  .  .  . 


206  Martinique  Sketches. 

— "  Vini  oue! — vini  oue!"  cry  the  children  to  one  an- 
other, — "  come  and  see !"  The  drums  are  drawing 
near ; — everybody  is  running  to  the  Grande  Rue.  .. .  . 


IV. 

Tarn! — tarn! — tamtamtam! .  .  .  The  spectacle  is  inter- 
esting from  the  Batterie  d'Esnotz.  High  up  the  Rue 
Peysette, — up  all  the  precipitous  streets  that  ascend  the 
mornes, — a  far  gathering  of  showy  color  appears  :  the 
massing  of  maskers  in  rose  and  blue  and  sulphur- 
yellow  attire.  .  .  .  Then  what  a  degringolade  begins ! — 
what  a  tumbling,  leaping,  cascading  of  color  as  the 
troupes  descend.  Simultaneously  from  north  and  south, 
from  the  Mouillage  and  the  Fort,  two  immense  bands 
enter  the  Grande  Rue ; — the  great  dancing  societies 
these, — the  Sans-souci  and  the  Intrepides.  They  are 
rivals ;  they  are  the  composers  and  singers  of  those  Car- 
nival songs, — cruel  satires  most  often,  of  which  the  local 
meaning  is  unintelligible  to  those  unacquainted  with  the 
incident  inspiring  the  improvisation, — of  which  the  words 
are  too  often  coarse  or  obscene, — whose  burdens  will 
be  caught  up  and  re-echoed  through  all  the  burghs  of 
the  island.  Vile  as  may  be  the  motive,  the  satire,  the 
malice,  these  chants  are  preserved  for  generations  by 
the  singular  beauty  of  the  airs  ;  and  the  victim  of  a 
Carnival  song  need  never  hope  that  his  failing  or  his 
wrong  will  be  forgotten  :  it  will  be  sung  of  long  after  he 
is  in  his  grave. 

.  .  .  Ten  minutes  more,  and  the  entire  length  of  the 
street  is  thronged  with  a  shouting,  shrieking,  laughing, 
gesticulating  host  of  maskers.  Thicker  and  thicker  the 
press  becomes ; — the  drums  are  silent :  all  are  waiting 
for  the  signal  of  the  general  dance.  Jests  and  prac- 
tical jokes  are  being  everywhere  perpetrated ;  there  is 
a  vast  hubbub,  made  up  of  screams,  cries,  chattering, 


RUE   VICTOR   HUGO    (FORMERLY    GRANDE    RUE),   ST.  PIERRE. 


La  Ve'rette.  207 

laughter.  Here  and  there  snatches  of  Carnival  song  are 
being  sung: — " Cambronne,  Cambronne ;"  or  " Ti fenm-la 
doux,  li  doux,  li  doux!"  . . .  "  Sweeter  than  sirup  the  little 
woman  is"; — this  burden  will  be  remembered  when  the 
rest  of  the  song  passes  out  of  fashion.  Brown  hands 
reach  out  from  the  crowd  of  masks,  pulling  the  beards 
and  patting  the  faces  of  white  spectators.  .  .  .  " Main  con- 
naitt  ou,  che  ! — main  connaitt  ou,  doudoux !  ba  moin  ti  d'mi 
franc!"  It  is  well  to  refuse  the  half-franc, — though  you 
do  not  know  what  these  maskers  might  take  a  notion  to 
do  to-day.  .  .  .  Then  all  the  great  drums  suddenly  boom 
together;  all  the  bands  strike  up;  the  mad  medley  kalei- 
doscopes into  some  sort  of  order ;  and  the  immense  pro- 
cessional dance  begins.  From  the  Mouillage  to  the 
Fort  there  is  but  one  continuous  torrent  of  sound  and 
color :  you  are  dazed  by  the  tossing  of  peaked  caps,  the 
waving  of  hands,  and  twinkling  of  feet; — and  all  this 
passes  with  a  huge  swing, — a  regular  swaying  to  right 
and  left.  ...  It  will  take  at  least  an  hour  for  all  to  pass ; 
and  it  is  an  hour  well  worth  passing.  Band  after  band 
whirls  by ;  the  musicians  all  garbed  as  women  or  as 
monks  in  canary  -  colored  habits  ;  —  before  them  the 
dancers  are  dancing  backward,  with  a  motion  as  of 
skaters ;  behind  them  all  leap  and  wave  hands  as  in  pur- 
suit. Most  of  the  bands  are  playing  Creole  airs, — but 
that  of  the  Sans-souci  strikes  up  the  melody  of  the  latest 
French  song  in  vogue,  —  Petits  amoureux  aux  plumes 
("Little  feathered  lovers"*).  Everybody  now  seems  to 


*  "  Petits  amoureux  aux  plumes, 

Enfants  d'un  brillant  se'jour, 
Vous  ignorez  1'amertume, 

Vous  parlez  souvent  d'amour;  .  .  . 
Vous  meprisez  la  dorure, 

Les  salons,  et  les  bijoux; 
Vous  cherissez  la  Nature, 

Petits  oiseaux,  becquetez-vous ! 


208  Martinique  Sketches. 

know  this  song  by  heart;  you  hear  children  only  five  or 
six  years  old  singing  it :  there  are  pretty  lines  in  it,  al- 
though two  out  of  its  four  stanzas  are  commonplace 
enough,  and  it  is  certainly  the  air  rather  than  the  words 
which  accounts  for  its  sudden  popularity. 


V. 

.  .  .  EXTRAORDINARY  things  are  happening  in  the 
streets  through  which  the  procession  passes.  Pest-smit- 
ten women  rise  from  their  beds  to  costume  themselves, — 
to  mask  face  already  made  unrecognizable  by  the  hide- 
ous malady, — and  stagger  out  to  join  the  dancers.  .  .  . 
They  do  this  in  the  Rue  Longchamps,  in  the  Rue  St. 
Jean-de-Dieu,  in  the  Rue  Peysette,  in  the  Rue  de  Petit 

"  Voyez  labas,  dans  cette  eglise, 
Aupres  d'un  confessional, 
Le  pretre,  qui  veut  faire  croire  a  Lise, 

Qu'un  baiser  est  un  grand  mal; — 
Pour  prouver  a  la  mignonne 

Qu'un  baiser  bien  fait,  bien  doux, 
N'a  jamais  damne  personne 

Petits  oiseaux,  becquetez-vous !" 

[  Translation^ 

Little  feathered  lovers,  cooing, 

Children  of  the  radiant  air, 
Sweet  your  speech, — the  speech  of  wooing ; 

Ye  have  ne'er  a  grief  to  bear ! 
Gilded  ease  and  jewelled  fashion 

Never  own  a  charm  for  you; 
Ye  love  Nature's  truth  with  passion, 

Pretty  birdlings,  bill  and  coo ! 

See  that  priest  who,  Lise  confessing, 

Wants  to  make  the  girl  believe 
That  a  kiss  without  a  blessing 

Is  a  fault  for  which  to  grieve ! 
Now  to  prove,  to  his  vexation, 

That  no  tender  kiss  and  true 
Ever  caused  a  soul's  damnation, 

Pretty  birdlings,  bill  and  coo ! 


La  Verette.  209 

Versailles.  And  in  the  Rue  Ste.-Marthe  there  are  three 
young  girls  sick  with  the  disease,  who  hear  the  blowing  of 
the  horns  and  the  pattering  of  feet  and  clapping  of  hands 
in  chorus  ; — they  get  up  to  look  through  the  slats  of  their 
windows  on  the  masquerade, — and  the  Creole  passion  of 
the  dance  comes  upon  them,  "Ah!"  cries  one, — " nou 
ke  bien  amieuse  nou! — c'est  zaffai  si  nou  nib  !"  [We  will 
have  our  fill  of  fun  :  what  matter  if  we  die  after  !]  And 
all  mask,  and  join  the  rout,  and  dance  down  to  the  Sa- 
vane,  and  over  the  river-bridge  into  the  high  streets  of 
the  Fort,  carrying  contagion  with  them  !  ...  No  extraor- 
dinary example,  this  :  the  ranks  of  the  dancers  hold  many 
and  many  a  verrettier. 

VI. 

.  .  .  THE  costumes  are  rather  disappointing, — though 
the  mummery  has  some  general  characteristics  that  are 
not  unpicturesque ; — for  example,  the  predominance  of 
crimson  and  canary-yellow  in  choice  of  color,  and  a  mark- 
ed predilection  for  pointed  hoods  and  high-peaked  head- 
dresses. Mock  religious  costumes  also  form  a  striking 
element  in  the  general  tone  of  the  display, — Franciscan, 
Dominican,  or  Penitent  habits, — usually  crimson  or  yel- 
low, rarely  sky-blue.  There  are  no  historical  costumes, 
few  eccentricities  or  monsters:  only  a  few  "vampire-bat" 
head-dresses  abruptly  break  the  effect  of  the  peaked  caps 
and  the  hoods.  .  .  .  Still  there  are  some  decidedly  local 
ideas  in  dress  which  deserve  notice, — the  congo,  the  MM 
(or  ti-manmaille),  the  ti  negue  gouos-sirop  ("  little  molas- 
ses-negro"); and  the  diablesse. 

The  congo  is  merely  the  exact  reproduction  of  the 
dress  worn  by  workers  on  the  plantations.  For  the  wom- 
en, a  gray  calico  shirt  and  coarse  petticoat  of  percaline  ; 
with  two  coarse  handkerchiefs  (mouchoirs  fatas),  one  for 
her  neck,  and  one  for  the  head,  over  which  is  worn  a 
monstrous  straw  hat ; — she  walks  either  barefoot  or  shod 


2IO  Martinique  Sketches. 

with  rude  native  sandals,  and  she  carries  a  hoe.  For 
the  man  the  costume  consists  of  a  gray  shirt  of  rough 
material,  blue  canvas  pantaloons,  a  large  mouchoir  fatas 
to  tie  around  his  waist,  and  a  chapean  Bacoue, — an  enor- 
mous hat  of  Martinique  palm-straw.  He  walks  barefoot- 
ed and  carries  a  cutlass. 

The  sight  of  a  troupe  of  young  girls  en  bebe,  in  baby- 
dress,  is  really  pretty.  This  costume  comprises  only  a 
loose  embroidered  chemise,  lace-edged  pantalettes,  and 
a  child's  cap;  the  whole  being  decorated  with  bright  rib- 
bons of  various  colors.  As  the  dress  is  short  and  leaves 
much  of  the  lower  limbs  exposed,  there  is  ample  oppor- 
tunity for  display  of  tinted  stockings  and  elegant  slippers. 

The  "  molasses  -negro "  wears  nothing  but  a  cloth 
around  his  loins ; — his  whole  body  and  face  being  smear- 
ed with  an  atrocious  mixture  of  soot  and  molasses.  He 
is  supposed  to  represent  the  original  African  ancestor. 

The  devilesses  (diablesses]  are  few  in  number ;  for  it 
requires  a  very  tall  woman  to  play  deviless.  These  are 
robed  all  in  black,  with  a  white  turban  and  white  foulard  ; 
they  wear  black  masks.  They  also  carry  boms  (large 
tin  cans),  which  they  allow  to  fall  upon  the  pavement 
from  time  to  time  ;  and  they  walk  barefoot.  .  .  .  The  dev- 
iless (in  true  Bitaco  idiom,  "guiablesse")  represents  a  sin- 
gular Martinique  superstition.  It  is  said  that  sometimes 
at  noonday,  a  beautiful  negress  passes  silently  through 
some  isolated  plantation, — smiling  at  the  workers  in  the 
cane-fields, —  tempting  men  to  follow  her.  But  he  who 
follows  her  never  comes  back  again;  and  when  a  field 
hand  mysteriously  disappears,  his  fellows  say,  "  Y  te  ka 
oue  la  Guiablesse  !  " .  .  .  The  tallest  among  the  devilesses 
always  walks  first,  chanting  the  question,  "Jou  ouve  ?" 
(Is  it  yet  daybreak  ?)  And  all  the  others  reply  in  chorus, 
"Jou pa'nco  ouve"  (It  is  not  yet  day.) 

—The  masks  worn  by  the  multitude  include  very  few 
grotesques  :  as  a  rule,  they  are  simply  white  wire  masks, 


La  Verette.  211 

having  the  form  of  an  oval  and  regular  human  face  ; — and 
they  disguise  the  wearer  absolutely,  although  they  can  be 
seen  through  perfectly  well  from  within.  It  struck  me 
at  once  that  this  peculiar  type  of  wire  mask  gave  an 
indescribable  tone  of  ghostliness  to  the  whole  exhibi- 
tion. It  is  not  in  the  least  comical;  it  is  neither  comely 
nor  ugly;  it  is  colorless  as  mist, — expressionless,  void, 
dead; — it  lies  on  the  face  like  a  vapor,  like  a  cloud,— 
creating  the  idea  of  a  spectral  vacuity  behind  it.  ... 


VII. 

.  ...  Now  comes  the  band  of  the  Intrepides,  playing  the 
bouene.  It  is  a  dance  melody, — also  the  name  of  a  mode 
of  dancing,  peculiar  and  unrestrained; — the  dancers 
advance  and  retreat  face  to  face;  they  hug  each  other, 
press  together,  and  separate  to  embrace  again.  A  very 
old  dance,  this, — of  African  origin ;  perhaps  the  same  of 
which  Pere  Labat  wrote  in  1722 :— 

— "  It  is  not  modest.  Nevertheless,  it  has  not  failed  to 
become  so  popular  with  the  Spanish  Creoles  of  America, 
and  so  much  in  vogue  among  them,  that  it  now  forms  the 
chief  of  their  amusements,  and  that  it  enters  even  into 
their  devotions.  They  dance  it  even  in  their  Churches, 
and  in  their  Processions ;  and  the  Nuns  seldom  fail  to 
dance  it  Christmas  Night,  upon  a  stage  erected  in  their 
Choir  and  immediately  in  front  of  their  iron  grating, 
which  is  left  open,  so  that  the  People  may  share  in  the 
joy  manifested  by  these  good  souls  for  the  birth  of  the 
Saviour."*.  .  . 

* .  .  . "  Cette  danse  est  opposee  a  la  pudeur.  Avec  tout  cela,  elle 
ne  laisse  pas  d'etre  tellement  du  gout  des  Espagnols  Creolles  de  1'A- 
merique,  &  si  fort  en  usage  parmi  eux,  qu'elle  fait  la  meilleure  partie 
de  leurs  divertissements,  &  qu'elle  entre  meme  dans  leurs  devotions. 
Us  la  dansent  meme  dans  leurs  Eglises  &  a  leurs  processions  ;  et  les 
Religieuses  ne  manquent  guere  de  la  danser  la  Nuit  de  Noel,  sur  un 


212  Martinique  Sketches. 

VIII. 

.  .  .  EVERY  year,  on  the  last  day  of  the  Carnival,  a  droll 
ceremony  used  to  take  place  called  the  "  Burial  of  the 
Bois-bois," — the  bois-bois  being  a  dummy,  a  guy,  cari- 
caturing the  most  unpopular  thing  in  city  life  or  in  poli- 
tics. This  bois-bois,  after  having  been  paraded  with 
mock  solemnity  through  all  the  ways  of  St.  Pierre,  was 
either  interred  or  "drowned," — flung  into  the  sea.  .  . .  And 
yesterday  the  dancing  societies  had  announced  their  in- 
tention to  bury  a  bois-bois  laverette, — a  manikin  that  was 
to  represent  the  plague.  But  this  bois-bois  does  not 
make  its  appearance.  La  Verette  is  too  terrible  a  vis- 
itor to  be  made  fun  of,  my  friends ; — you  will  not  laugh 
at  her,  because  you  dare  not.  .  .  . 

No:  there  is  one  who  has  the  courage, — a  yellow  gob- 
lin crying  from  behind  his  wire  mask,  in  imitation  of  the 
machannes:  "fa  qui  7<?  quatoze  graines  laverette  pou  yon 
sou?"  (Who  wants  to  buy  fourteen  verette-spots  for  a 
sou?) 

Not  a  single  laugh  follows  that  jest  .  .  .  And  just  one 
week  from  to-day,  poor  mocking  goblin,  you  will  have  a 
great  many  more  than  quatorze  graines,  which  will  not 
cost  you  even  a  sou,  and  which  will  disguise  you  infinite- 
ly better  than  the  mask  you  now  wear; — and  they  will 
pour  quick-lime  over  you,  ere  ever  they  let  you  pass 
through  this  street  again — in  a  seven  franc  coffin !  .  .  . 


IX. 

AND  the  multicolored  clamoring  stream  rushes  by,— 
swerves  off  at  last  through  the  Rue  des  Ursulines  to 


theatre  e'leve  dans  leur  Choeur,  vis-a-vis  de  leur  grille,  qui  est  ou- 
verte,  afin  que  le  Peuple  ait  sa  part  dans  la  joye  que  ces  bonnes  ames 
temoignent  pour  la  naissance  du  Sauveur. " 


La  Vtrette.  2 1 3 

the  Savane, — rolls  over  the  new  bridge  of  the  Roxelane 
to  the  ancient  quarter  of  the  Fort. 

All  of  a  sudden  there  is  a  hush,  a  halt ; — the  drums 
stop  beating,  the  songs  cease.  Then  I  see  a  sudden 
scattering  of  goblins  and  demons  and  devilesses  in  all 
directions:  they  run  into  houses,  up  alleys,- — hide  be- 
hind door-ways.  And  the  crowd  parts ;  and  straight 
through  it,  walking  very  quickly,  comes  a  priest  in  his 
vestments,  preceded  by  an  acolyte  who  rings  a  little  bell. 
C"est  Bon-Die  ka passe!  ("It  is  the  Good-God  who  goes 
by!")  The  father  is  bearing  the  "viaticum"  to  some  vic- 
tim of  the  pestilence  :  one  must  not  appear  masked  as 
a  devil  or  a  deviless  in  the  presence  of  the  Bon-Did. 

He  goes  by.  The  flood  of  maskers  recloses  behind 
the  ominous  passage ; — the  drums  boom  again ;  the  dance 
recommences ;  and  all  the  fantastic  mummery  ebbs  swift- 
ly out  of  sight. 

X. 

NIGHT  falls ; — the  maskers  crowd  to  the  ball-rooms  to 
dance  strange  tropical  measures  that  will  become  wilder 
and  wilder  as  the  hours  pass.  And  through  the  black 
streets,  the  Devil  makes  his  last  Carnival-round. 

By  the  gleam  of  the  old-fashioned  oil  lamps  hung 
across  the  thoroughfares  I  can  make  out  a  few  details 
of  his  costume.  He  is  clad  in  red,  wears  a  hideous  blood- 
colored  mask,  and  a  cap  of  which  the  four  sides  are  formed 
by  four  looking-glasses; — the  whole  head-dress  being 
surmounted  by  a  red  lantern.  He  has  a  white  wig  made 
of  horse-hair,  to  make  him  look  weird  and  old, — since 
the  Devil  is  older  than  the  world !  Down  the  street  he 
comes,  leaping  nearly  his  own  height, — chanting  words 
without  human  signification, — and  followed  by  some  three 
hundred  boys,  who  form  the  chorus  to  his  chant  —  all 
clapping  hands  together  and  giving  tongue  with  a  simul- 
taneity that  testifies  how  strongly  the  sense  of  rhythm 


214  Martinique  Sketches. 

enters  into  the  natural  musical  feeling  of  the  African, — 
a  feeling  powerful  enough  to  impose  itself  upon  all  Span- 
ish-America, and  there  create  the  unmistakable  charac- 
teristics of  all  that  is  called  "  Creole  music." 

— "  Bimbolo  !" 

— "  Zimabolo  !" 

— "  Bimbolo  !" 

— "  Zimabolo  !" 

— "Et  zimbolo  !" 

— "Et  bolo-po!" 

— sing  the  Devil  and  his  chorus.  His  chant  is  cavern- 
ous, abysmal, — booms  from  his  chest  like  the  sound  of 
a  drum  beaten  in  the  bottom  of  a  well.  .  .  .  Ti  manmaille- 
/d,  baill  main  lavoix!  ("  Give  me  voice,  little  folk, — give 
me  voice  !")  And  all  chant  after  him,  in  a  chanting  like 
the  rushing  of  many  waters,  and  with  triple  clapping  of 
hands  : — "Ti  manmaille-la,  baill  moin  lavoix  /"  .  .  .  Then 
he  halts  before  a  dwelling  in  the  Rue  Peysette,  and 
thunders  : — 

—"Eh!  Marie-sans-dent !— Mi!  diabe-la  derho!" 

That  is  evidently  a  piece  of  spite-work  :  there  is  some- 
body living  there  against  whom  he  has  a  grudge.  .  .  . 
"Hey!  Marie -without -teeth!  look!  the  Devil  is  outside!" 
And  the  chorus  catch  the  clue. 

DEVIL.— "Eh!  Marie-sans-dent!"  ...  . 

CHORUS. — "Marie-sans-dent!  mi! — diabe-la  dertib  /" 

D.—"E/i!  Marie-sans-dent !"  .  .  . 

C. — "  Marie-sans  dent !  mi  ! — diabe-a  derhb  /' ' 

D.—"Ehf  Marie-sans-dent!" .  .  .  etc. 

The  Devil  at  last  descends  to  the  main  street,  always 
singing  the  same  song ; — I  follow  the  chorus  to  the  Sa- 
vanna, where  the  rout  makes  for  the  new  bridge  over  the 
Roxelane,  to  mount  the  high  streets  of  the  old  quarter 
of  the  Fort ;  and  the  chant  changes  as  they  cross  over  : — 

DEVIL.  —  "Oti  one  diabe-la  passe  larivie?"     (Where 


La  Vcrette.  215 

did  you  see  the  Devil  going  over  the  river?)  And  all 
the  boys  repeat  the  words,  falling  into  another  rhythm 
with  perfect  regularity  and  ease  :  —  "  Oti  one  diabe-la  passe 
larivie  ?" 

DEVIL.—"  Oti  one  diabet"  .  .  . 

CHORUS.  —  "  Oti  one  diabe-la  passe  larivie  ?" 


C.  —  "Oft  one  diabe-la  passe  larivie  ?" 

D.  —  "Oti  one  diabeT  .  .  .  etc. 

About  midnight  the  return  of  the  Devil  and  his  follow- 
ing arouses  me  from  sleep  :  —  all  are  chanting  a  new  re- 
frain, "  The  Devil  and  the  zombis  sleep  anywhere  and 
everywhere  !"  (Diabe  epi  zombi  ka  domi  tout-pdtout.)  The 
voices  of  the  boys  are  still  clear,  shrill,  fresh,  —  clear  as 
a  chant  of  frogs  ;  —  they  still  clap  hands  with  a  precision 
of  rhythm  that  is  simply  wonderful,  —  making  each  time 
a  sound  almost  exactly  like  the  bursting  of  a  heavy 
wave  :  — 

DEVIL.  —  "  Diabe  epi  zombi"  .  .  . 

CHORUS.  —  "Diabe  epi  zombi  ka  domi  tout-patout  !" 

D.—  "Diabe  epi  zombi."  .  .  . 

C.  —  "Diabe  epi  zombi  ka  domi  tout-patout  7" 

D.  —  "Diabe  epi  zombi"  .  .  .  etc. 

.  .  .  What  is  this  after  all  but  the  old  African  method 
of  chanting  at  labor.  The  practice  of  carrying  the  bur- 
den upon  the  head  left  the  hands  free  for  the  rhythmic 
accompaniment  of  clapping.  And  you  may  still  hear  the 
women  who  load  the  transatlantic  steamers  with  coal  at 
Fort-de-France  thus  chanting  and  clapping.  .  .  . 

Evidently  the  Devil  is  moving  very  fast  ;  for  all  the 
boys  are  running  ;  —  the  pattering  of  bare  feet  upon  the 
pavement  sounds  like  a  heavy  shower.  .  .  .  Then  the 
chanting  grows  fainter  in  distance  ;  the  Devil's  immense 
basso  becomes  inaudible  ;  —  one  only  distinguishes  at  reg- 
ular intervals  the  crescendo  of  the  burden,  —  a  wild  swelling 


216  Martinique  Sketches. 

of  many  hundred  boy-voices  all  rising  together, — a  re- 
treating storm  of  rhythmic  song,  wafted  to  the  ear  in 
gusts,  in  rafales  of  contralto.  .  .  . 


XI. 

February  17th. 

.  .  .  YZORE  is  a  calendeuse. 

The  calendeuses  are  the  women  who  make  up  the 
beautiful  Madras  turbans  and  color  them  ;  for  the  amaz- 
ingly brilliant  yellow  of  these  head-dresses  is  not  the 
result  of  any  dyeing  process :  they  are  all  painted  by 
hand.  When  purchased  the  Madras  is  simply  a  great 
oblong  handkerchief,  having  a  pale  green  or  pale  pink 
ground,  and  checkered  or  plaided  by  intersecting  bands 
of  dark  blue,  purple,  crimson,  or  maroon.  The  calendeuse 
lays  the  Madras  upon  a  broad  board  placed  across  her 
knees  , — then,  taking  a  camel's-hair  brush,  she  begins  to 
fill  in  the  spaces  between  the  bands  with  a  sulphur- 
yellow  paint,  which  is  always  mixed  with  gum-arabic. 
It  requires  a  sure  eye,  very  steady  fingers,  and  long  ex- 
perience to  do  this  well.  .  .  .  After  the  Madras  has  been 
"  calendered  "  (calende)  and  has  become  quite  stiff  and 
dry,  it  is  folded  about  the  head  of  the  purchaser  after  the 
comely  Martinique  fashion, — which  varies  considerably 
from  the  modes  popular  in  Guadeloupe  or  Cayenne, — is 
fixed  into  the  form  thus  obtained ;  and  can  thereafter 
be  taken  off  or  put  on  without  arrangement  or  disar- 
rangement, like  a  cap.  The  price  for  calendering  a 
Madras  is  now  two  francs  and  fifteen  sous ; — and  for 
making -up  the  turban,  six  sous  additional,  except  in 
Carnival-time,  or  upon  holiday  occasions,  when  the  price 
rises  to  twenty- five  sous.  .  .  .  The  making-up  of  the 
Madras  into  a  turban  is  called  "  tying  a  head  "  (marrt 
yon  fete);  and  a  prettily  folded  turban  is  spoken  of  as  "a 
head  well  tied"  (yon  tete  bien  marre).  .  .  .  However,  the 
profession  of  calendeuse  is  far  from  being  a  lucrative 


La  Verette.  217 

one :  it  is  two  or  three  days'  work  to  calender  a  single 
Madras  well.  .  .  . 

But  Yzore  does  not  depend  upon  calendering  alone 
for  a  living :  she  earns  much  more  by  the  manufacture 
of  Moresques  and  of  chinoises  than  by  painting  Madras 
turbans.  .  .  .  Everybody  in  Martinique  who  can  afford 
it  wears  moresques  and  chinoises.  The  moresques  are 
large  loose  comfortable  pantaloons  of  thin  printed  calico 
(indienne)) — having  colored  designs  representing  birds, 
frogs,  leaves,  lizards,  flowers,  butterflies,  or  kittens, — or 
perhaps  representing  nothing  in  particular,  being  sim- 
ply arabesques.  The  chinoise  is  a  loose  body-garment, 
very  much  like  the  real  Chinese  blouse,  but  always  of 
brightly  colored  calico  with  fantastic  designs.  These 
things  are  worn  at  home  during  siestas,  after  office-hours, 
and  at  night.  To  take  a  nap  during  the  day  with  one's 
ordinary  clothing  on  means  always  a  terrible  drench- 
ing from  perspiration,  and  an  after-feeling  of  exhaustion 
almost  indescribable  —  best  expressed,  perhaps,  by  the 
local  term  :  corps  ecrase.  Therefore,  on  entering  one's 
room  for  the  siesta,  one  strips,  puts  on  the  light  mo- 
resques and  the  chinoise,  and  dozes  in  comfort.  A  suit  of 
this  sort  is  very  neat,  often  quite  pretty,  and  very  cheap 
(costing  only  about  six  francs) ; — the  colors  do  not  fade 
out  in  washing,  and  two  good  suits  will  last  a  year.  .  .  . 
Yzore  can  make  two  pair  of  moresques  and  two  chi- 
noises in  a  single  day  upon  her  machine. 

...  I  have  observed  there  is  a  prejudice  here  against 
treadle  machines ; — the  Creole  girls  are  persuaded  they 
injure  the  health.  Most  of  the  sewing-machines  I  have 
seen  among  this  people  are  operated  by  hand, — with  a 
sort  of  little  crank.  .  .  . 

XII>  February  22d. 

.  .  .  OLD  physicians  indeed  predicted  it;  but  who  be- 
lieved them?  .  .  . 


218  Martinique  Sketches. 

It  is  as  though  something  sluggish  and  viewless,  dor- 
mant and  deadly,  had  been  suddenly  upstirred  to  furious 
life  by  the  wind  of  robes  and  tread  of  myriad  dancing 
feet, — by  the  crash  of  cymbals  and  heavy  vibration  of 
drums  !  Within  a  few  days  there  has  been  a  frightful 
increase  of  the  visitation,  an  almost  incredible  expansion 
of  the  invisible  poison :  the  number  of  new  cases  and  of 
deaths  has  successively  doubled,  tripled,  quadrupled. .  . . 

.  .  .  Great  caldrons  of  tar  are  kindled  now  at  night  in 
the  more  thickly  peopled  streets, — about  one  hundred 
paces  apart,  each  being  tended  by  an  Indian  laborer  in 
the  pay  of  the  city :  this  is  done  with  the  idea  of  purify- 
ing the  air.  These  sinister  fires  are  never  lighted  but 
in  times  of  pestilence  and  of  tempest :  on  hurricane 
nights,  when  enormous  waves  roll  in  from  the  fathomless 
sea  upon  one  of  the  most  fearful  coasts  in  the  world, 
and  great  vessels  are  being  driven  ashore,  such  is  the  il- 
lumination by  which  the  brave  men  of  the  coast  make 
desperate  efforts  to  save  the  lives  of  shipwrecked  men, 
often  at  the  cost  of  their  own.* 


February  23d. 

A  COFFIN  passes,  balanced  on  the  heads  of  black  men. 
It  holds  the  body  of  Pascaline  Z ,  covered  with  quick- 
lime. 

She  was  the  prettiest,  assuredly,  among  the  pretty  shop- 


*  During  a  hurricane,  several  years  ago,  a  West  Indian  steamer 
was  disabled  at  a  dangerously  brief  distance  from  the  coast  of  the 
island  by  having  her  propeller  fouled.  Some  broken  and  drifting 
rigging  had  become  wrapped  around  it.  One  of  the  crew,  a  Marti- 
nique mulatto,  tied  a  rope  about  his  waist,  took  his  knife  between 
his  teeth,  dived  overboard,  and  in  that  tremendous  sea  performed 
the  difficult  feat  of  disengaging  the  propeller,  and  thus  saving  the 
steamer  from  otherwise  certain  destruction.  .  .  .  This  brave  fellow 
received  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  .  .  . 


La  Verette.  219 

girls  of  the  Grande  Rue, — a  rare  type  of  sang-melee.  So 
oddly  pleasing,  the  young  face,  that  once  seen,  you  could 
never  again  dissociate  the  recollection  of  it  from  the 
memory  of  the  street.  But  one  who  saw  it  last  night  be- 
fore they  poured  quick-lime  upon  it  could  discern  no 
features, — only  a  dark  brown  mass,  like  a  fungus,  too 
frightful  to  think  about. 

.  .  .  And  they  are  all  going  thus,  the  beautiful  women 
of  color.  In  the  opinion  of  physicians,  the  whole  gener- 
ation is  doomed.  .  .  .  Yet  a  curious  fact  is  that  the  young 
children  of  octoroons  are  suffering  least:  these  women 
have  their  children  vaccinated, — though  they  will  not  be 
vaccinated  themselves.  I  see  many  brightly  colored  chil- 
dren, too,  recovering  from  the  disorder :  the  skin  is  not 
pitted,  like  that  of  the  darker  classes;  and  the  rose-col- 
ored patches  finally  disappear  altogether,  leaving  no  trace. 

.  .  .  Here  the  sick  are  wrapped  in  banana  leaves,  after 
having  been  smeared  with  a  certain  unguent.  .  .  .  There 
is  an  immense  demand  for  banana  leaves.  In  ordinary 
times  these  leaves — especially  the  younger  ones,  still  un- 
rolled, and  tender  and  soft  beyond  any  fabric  possible 
for  man  to  make — are  used  for  poultices  of  all  kinds, 
and  sell  from  one  to  two  sous  each,  according  to  size 
and  quality. 

XIV'  February  29th. 

.  .  .  THE  whites  remain  exempt  from  the  malady. 

One  might  therefore  hastily  suppose  that  liability  to 
contagion  would  be  diminished  in  proportion  to  the  ex- 
cess of  white  blood  over  African;  but  such  is  far  from 
being  the  case ; — St.  Pierre  is  losing  its  handsomest  oc- 
toroons. Where  the  proportion  of  white  to  black  blood 
is  116  to  8,  as  in  the  type  called  mamelouc ; — or  122  to  4, 
as  in  the  quarteronne  (not  to  be  confounded  with  the 
quarteron  or  quadroon); — or  even  127  to  i,  as  in  the 
18 


22O  Martinique  Sketches. 

sang-mele,  the  liability  to  attack  remains  the  same,  while 
the  chances  of  recovery  are  considerably  less  than  in  the 
case  of  the  black.  Some  few  striking  instances  of  im- 
munity appear  to  offer  a  different  basis  for  argument ; 
but  these  might  be  due  to  the  social  position  of  the  indi- 
vidual rather  than  to  any  constitutional  temper:  wealth 
and  comfort,  it  must  be  remembered,  have  no  small 
prophylactic  value  in  such  times.  Still, — although  there 
is  reason  to  doubt  whether  mixed  races  have  a  constitu- 
tional vigor  comparable  to  that  of  the  original  parent- 
races, — the  liability  to  diseases  of  this  class  is  decided 
less,  perhaps,  by  race  characteristics  than  by  ancestral 
experience.  The  white  peoples  of  the  world  have  been 
practically  inoculated,  vaccinated,  by  experience  of  cen- 
turies ; — while  among  these  visibly  mixed  or  black  pop- 
ulations the  seeds  of  the  pest  find  absolutely  fresh  soil 
in  which  to  germinate,  and  its  ravages  are  therefore 
scarcely  less  terrible  than  those  it  made  among  the 
American-Indian  or  the  Polynesian  races  in  other  times. 
IVtoreover,  there  is  an  unfortunate  prejudice  against  vac- 
cination here.  People  even  now  declare  that  those  vac- 
cinated die  just  as  speedily  of  the  plague  as  those  who 
have  never  been  ; — and  they  can  cite  cases  in  proof.  It 
is  useless  to  talk  to  them  about  averages  of  immunity, 
percentage  of  liability,  etc. ; — they  have  seen  with  their 
own  eyes  persons  who  had  been  well  vaccinated  die  of  the 
verette,  and  that  is  enough  to  destroy  their  faith  in  the  sys- 
tem. . . .  Even  the  priests,  who  pray  their  congregations 
to  adopt  the  only  known  safeguard  against  the  disease, 
can  do  little  against  this  scepticism. 

XV-  March  5th. 

.  .  .  THE  streets  are  so  narrow  in  this  old-fashioned 
quarter  that  even  a  whisper  is  audible  across  them ;  and 
after  dark  I  hear  a  great  many  things, — sometimes  sounds 


La  Verette.  221 

of  pain,  sobbing,  despairing  cries  as  Death  makes  his 
nightly  round, — sometimes,  again,  angry  words,  and  laugh- 
ter, and  even  song, — always  one  melancholy  chant :  the 
voice  has  that  peculiar  metallic  timbre  that  reveals  the 
young  negress  :— 

"Pauv'  ti  Z///, 

Pauv  ti  UU! 

Li  gagnin  dottle,  doule,  doule, — 

Li  gagnin  doule 

Tout-patout  /" 

I  want  to  know  who  little  Lele  was,  and  why  she  had 
pains  "all  over";  —  for  however  artless  and  childish 
these  Creole  songs  seem,  they  are  invariably  originated 
by  some  real  incident.  And  at  last  somebody  tells  me 
that  "  poor  little  Lele "  had  the  reputation  in  other 
years  of  being  the  most  unlucky  girl  in  St.  Pierre;  what- 
ever she  tried  to  do  resulted  only  in  misfortune ; — when 
it  was  morning  she  wished  it  were  evening,  that  she 
might  sleep  and  forget;  but  when  the  night  came  she 
could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  the  trouble  she  had  had 
during  the  day,  so  that  she  wished  it  were  morning.  .  .  . 

More  pleasant  it  is  to  hear  the  chatting  of  Yzore's 
children  across  the  way,  after  the  sun  has  set,  and  the 
stars  come  out.  .  .  .  Gabrielle  always  wants  to  know 
what  the  stars  are  : — 

—"Qa  qui  ka  daire  conm  fa,  manman?"  (What  is  it 
that  shines  like  that  ?) 

And  Yzore  answers  : — 

—"fa,  mafi, — test  ti  limit  Bon- Die"  (Those  are  the 
little  lights  of  the  Good-God.) 

— "It  is  so  pretty, —  eh,  mamma?  I  want  to  count 
them." 

— "  You  cannot  count  them,  child." 

— "  One — two — three — four — five  —six — seven."  Ga- 
brielle can  only  count  up  to  seven.  "Main  peidel — I  am 
lost,  mamma!" 


222  Martinique  Sketches. 

The  moon  comes  up  ; — she  cries  : — "Mi!  manman  ! — 
gade  goubs  dife  qui  adans  ciel-a  !  Look  at  the  great  fire 
in  the  sky." 

— "  It  is  the  Moon,  child  !  .  .  .  Don't  you  see  St.  Jo- 
seph in  it,  carrying  a  bundle  of  wood  ?" 

— "  Yes,  mamma  !  I  see  him  !  .  .  .  A  great  big  bundle 
of  wood  !".  .  . 

But  Mimi  is  wiser  in  moon-lore  :  she  borrows  half  a 
franc  from  her  mother  "  to  show  to  the  Moon."  And 
holding  it  up  before  the  silver  light,  she  sings  : — 

— "Pretty  Moon,  I  show  you  my  little  money; — now 
let  me  always  have  money  so  long  as  you  shine  !"* 

Then  the  mother  takes  them  up  to  bed  ; — and  in  a 
little  while  there  floats  to  me,  through  the  open  window, 
the  murmur  of  the  children's  evening  prayer : — 

"Ange-gardien, 
Veillez  sur  moi  ; 
*  *  *  * 

Ayez  pitie  de  ma  faiblesse  ; 
Couchez-vous  sur  mon  petit  lit; 
Suivez-moi  sans  cesse."  f .  .  . 

I  can  only  catch  a  line  here  and  there.  .  .  .  They  do 
not  sleep  immediately ; — they  continue  to  chat  in  bed. 
Gabrielle  wants  to  know  what  a  guardian-angel  is  like. 
And  I  hear  Mimi's  voice  replying  in  Creole : — 


*  ' '  Bel  Mine,  main  ka  montre  on  ti  piece  main  ! — ba  main  lagent 
toutt  temps  ou  ka  claire  T  .  .  .  This  little  invocation  is  supposed  to 
have  most  power  when  uttered  on  the  first  appearance  of  the  new 
moon. 

f  "  Guardian-angel,  watch  over  me  ; — have  pity  upon  my  weak- 
ness ;  lie  down  on  my  little  bed  with  me  ;  follow  me  whithersoever 
I  go.".  .  .  The  prayers  are  always  said  in  French.  Metaphysical 
and  theological  terms  cannot  be  rendered  in  the  patois  ;  and  the 
authors  of  Creole  catechisms  have  always  been  obliged  to  borrow  and 
explain  French  religious  phrases  in  order  to  make  their  texts  com- 
prehensible. 


La  Verette.  223 

— "  Zange  -gadien,  fest  yon  jeine  fi,  toutt  bel"  (The 
guardian-angel  is  a  young  girl,  all  beautiful.) 

A  little  while,  and  there  is  silence ;  and  I  see  Yzore 
come  out,  barefooted,  upon  the  moonlit  balcony  of  her 
little  room, — looking  up  and  down  the  hushed  street, 
looking  at  the  sea,  looking  up  betimes  at  the  high  flick- 
ering of  stars, — moving  her  lips  as  in  prayer.  .  .  .  And, 
standing  there  white-robed,  with  her  rich  dark  hair  loose- 
falling,  there  is  a  weird  grace  about  her  that  recalls  those 
long  slim  figures  of  guardian-angels  in  French  religious 
prints.  .  .  . 

XVI>  March  6th. . 

THIS  morning  Manm- Robert  brings  me  something 
queer, — something  hard  tied  up  in  a  tiny  piece  of  black 
cloth,  with  a  string  attached  to  hang  it  round  my  neck. 
I  must  wear  it,  she  says. 

— "Qa  fa  ye,  Manm-Robert?" 

— "Pou  empeche  on  pouend  laverette"  she  answers.  It 
is  to  keep  me  from  catching  the  verettel .  .  .  And  what  is 
inside  it? 

— "Toua  graines  mats,  epi  dicamfre"  (Three  grains  of 
corn,  with  a  bit  of  camphor !)  .  .  . 

XVI1'  March  8th. 

.  .  .  RICH  households  throughout  the  city  are  almost 
helpless  for  the  want  of  servants.  One  can  scarcely  ob- 
tain help  at  any  price  :  it  is  true  that  young  country-girls 
keep  coming  into  town  to  fill  the  places  of  the  dead;  but 
these  new-comers  fall  a  prey  to  the  disease  much  more 
readily  than  those  who  preceded  them.  And  such  deaths 
often  represent  more  than  a  mere  derangement  in  the 
mechanism  of  domestic  life.  The  Creole  bonne  bears  a  re- 
lation to  the  family  of  an  absolutely  peculiar  sort, — a  rela- 
tion of  which  the  term  "  house-servant "  does  not  convey 


224  Martinique  Sketches. 

the  faintest  idea.  She  is  really  a  member  of  the  household : 
her  association  with  its  life  usually  begins  in  childhood, 
when  she  is  barely  strong  enough  to  carry  a  dobanne  of 
water  up-stairs; — and  in  many  cases  she  has  the  addition- 
al claim  of  having  been  born  in  the  house.  As  a  child, 
she  plays  with  the  white  children, — shares  their  pleasures 
and  presents.  She  is  very  seldom  harshly  spoken  to,  or 
reminded  of  the  fact  that  she  is  a  servitor:  she  has  a  pet 
name; — she  is  allowed  much  familiarity, — is  often  per- 
mitted to  join  in  conversation  when  there  is  no  company 
present,  and  to  express  her  opinion  about  domestic  af- 
fairs. She  costs  very  little  to  keep ;  four  or  five  dollars 
a  year  will  supply  her  with  all  necessary  clothing; — she 
rarely  wears  shoes; — she  sleeps  on  a  little  straw  mattress 
{paillasse)  on  the  floor,  or  perhaps  upon  a  paillasse  sup- 
ported upon  an  "elephant"  (lefari) — two  thick  square 
pieces  of  hard  mattress  placed  together  so  as  to  form  an 
oblong.  She  is  only  a  nominal  expense  to  the  family; 
and  she  is  the  confidential  messenger,  the  nurse,  the 
chamber-maid,  the  water-carrier, — everything,  in  short, 
except  cook  and  washer-woman.  Families  possessing  a 
really  good  bonne  would  not  part  with  her  on  any  con- 
sideration. If  she  has  been  brought  up  in  the  house- 
hold, she  is  regarded  almost  as  a  kind  of  adopted  child. 
If  she  leave  that  household  to  make  a  home  of  her  own, 
and  have  ill-fortune  afterwards,  she  will  not  be  afraid  to 
return  with  her  baby,  which  will  perhaps  be  received  and 
brought  up  as  she  herself  was,  under  the  old  roof.  The 
stranger  may  feel  puzzled  at  first  by  this  state  of  affairs; 
yet  the  cause  is  not  obscure.  It  is  traceable  to  the  time 
of  the  formation  of  Creole  society — to  the  early  period 
of  slavery.  Among  the  Latin  races,  —  especially  the 
French, — slavery  preserved  in  modern  times  many  of  the 
least  harsh  features  of  slavery  in  the  antique  world, — 
where  the  domestic  slave,  entering  the  familia,  actually 
became  a  member  of  it. 


La  Verette.  225 

XVIII.  March  10th. 

.  .  .  YZORE  and  her  little  ones  are  all  in  Manm- Rob- 
ert's shop; — she  is  recounting  her  troubles, — fresh  trou- 
bles: forty-seven  francs' worth  of  work  delivered  on  time, 
and  no  money  received.  ...  So  much  I  hear  as  I  enter 
the  little  boutique  myself,  to  buy  a  package  of  "bouts." 

— "Assise!"  says  Manm-Robert,  handing  me  her  own 
chair ; — she  is  always  pleased  to  see  me,  pleased  to  chat 
with  me  about  Creole  folk-lore.  Then  observing  a  smile 
exchanged  between  myself  and  Mimi,  she  tells  the  chil- 
dren to  bid  me  good-day: — "Alle  di  bonjou'  Missie-a!" 

One  after  another,  each  holds  up  a  velvety  cheek  to 
kiss.  And  Mimi,  who  has  been  asking  her  mother  the 
same  question  over  and  over  again  for  at  least  five  min- 
utes without  being  able  to  obtain  an  answer,  ventures  to 
demand  of  me  on  the  strength  of  this  introduction : — 

— "Missie,  oti  masque-a  ?" 

— "Ybenfou,poulossf"  the  mother  cries  out; — "Why, 
the  child  must  be  going  out  of  her  senses !  .  .  .  Mimi  pa 
'mbete  moime  conm  (a!— pa  ni piess  masque:  c'est  la-verette 
qui  ni."  (Don't  annoy  people  like  that! — there  are  no 
maskers  now;  there  is  nothing  but  the  verette!) 

[You  are  not  annoying  me  at  all,  little  Mimi ;  but  I 
would  not  like  to  answer  your  question  truthfully.  I 
know  where  the  maskers  are,  —  most  of  them,  child ; 
and  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  well  for  you  to  know. 
They  wear  no  masks  now ;  but  if  you  were  to  see  them 
for  even  one  moment,  by  some  extraordinary  accident, 
pretty  Mimi,  I  think  you  would  feel  more  frightened 
than  you  ever  felt  before.]  .  .  . 

— "  Toutt  lanuite  y  ttanni  reve  masque-a"  continues 
Yzore.  ...  I  am  curious  to  know  what  Mimi's  dreams 
are  like; — wonder  if  I  can  coax  her  to  tell  me. .  .  . 


226  Martinique  Sketches. 

XIX. 

...  I  HAVE  written  Mimi's  last  dream  from  the  child's 
dictation : — * 

— "  I  saw  a  ball,"  she  says.  "  I  was  dreaming  :  I  saw 
everybody  dancing  with  masks  on ; —  I  was  looking  at 
them.  And  all  at  once  I  saw  that  the  folks  who  were 
dancing  were  all  made  of  pasteboard.  And  I  saw  a 
commandeur  :  he  asked  me  what  I  was  doing  there.  I 
answered  him  :  *  Why,  I  saw  a  ball,  and  I  came  to  look — 
what  of  it?'  He  answered  me: — 'Since  you  are  so  curious 
to  come  and  look  at  other  folks'  business,  you  will  have  to 
stop  here  and  dance  too  !'  I  said  to  him : — 4  No  !  I  won't 
dance  with  people  made  of  pasteboard ; — I  am  afraid  of 
them  !' .  .  .  And  I  ran  and  ran  and  ran, — I  was  so  much 
afraid.  .  And  I  ran  into  a  big  garden,  where  I  saw  a  big 
cherry-tree  that  had  only  leaves  upon  it;  and  I  saw  a 
man  sitting  under  the  cherry-tree.  He  asked  me  :— 
4  What  are  you  doing  here  ?'  I  said  to  him  : — '  I  am  try- 
ing to  find  my  way  out.'  He  said : — *  You  must  stay 


*  — "  Moin  te  oue  yon  bal  ; — moin  reve  :  mom  te  ka  oue  toutt 
moune  ka  danse  masque  ;  moin  te  ka  ga.de.  Et  toutt-a-coup  moin 
ka  oue  c'est  bonhomme-caton  ka  danse.  Et  moin  ka  oue  yon  Com- 
mande  :  y  ka  mande'  moin  9a  moin  ka  fai  la.  Moin  reponne  y  conm 
ca  : — '  Moin  oue  yon  bal,  moin  gade — coument !'  Y  ka  reponne 
moin : — '  Pisse  ou  si  quiriese  pou  vini  gade  baggai'e  moune,  faut 
rete  la  pou  danse  'tou.'  Moin  reponne  y: — '  Non!  moin  pa  danse 
epi  bonhomme-caton!  —  moin  pe1'.  .  .  Et  moin  ka  couri,  moin  ka 
couri,  moin  ka  couri  a  f6ce  moin  te  ni  pe.  Et  moin  rentre  adans 
grand  jadin  ;  et  moin  oue  gouos  pie-cirise  qui  te  chage  anni  feuill ; 
et  moin  ka  oue  yon  nhomme  assise  enba  cirise-a.  Y  mande  moin: 
— '  Qa  ou  ka  fai  la?'  Moin  di  y: — '  Moin  ka  chache  chimin  pou 
moin  alle.'  Y  di  moin: — '  Faut  rete  icitt.'  Et  moin  di  y: — 'Non!' 
— et  pou  chappe  co  moin,  moin  di  y: — 'Alle  enhaut-la:  ou  ke  one 
yon  bel  bal, — toutt  bonhomme-caton  ka  danse,  epi  yon  Commande- 
en-caton  ka  coumande  yo.'.  .  .  Epi  moin  levq,  a  f6ce  moin  te 
Pe.".  .  . 


La  Vfrette.  227 

here/  I  said  :  —  '  No,  no  !'  —  and  I  said,  in  order  to  be 
able  to  get  away  :  —  *  Go  up  there  !  —  you  will  see  a  fine 
ball  :  all  pasteboard  people  dancing  there,  and  a  paste- 
board commandeur  commanding  them  !'  .  .  .  And  then  I 
got  so  frightened  that  I  awoke."  .  .  . 

..."  And  why  were  you  so  afraid  of  them,  Mimi  ?"  I 
ask. 

—  "Pace  yo  te  toutt  vide  endedans  /"  answers  Mimi.  (Be- 
cause they  were  all  hollow  inside  /) 


»  <  March  19th. 

.  ,  .  THE  death-rate  in  St.  Pierre  is  now  between  three 
hundred  and  fifty  and  four  hundred  a  month.  Our  street 
is  being  depopulated.  Every  day  men  come  with  im- 
mense stretchers,  —  covered  with  a  sort  of  canvas  awn- 
ing, —  to  take  somebody  away  to  the  lazaretto.  At  brief 
intervals,  also,  coffins  are  carried  into  houses  empty,  and 
carried  out  again  followed  by  women  who  cry  so  loud 
that  their  sobbing  can  be  heard  a  great  way  off. 

.  .  .  Before  the  visitation  few  quarters  were  so  densely 
peopled  :  there  were  living  often  in  one  small  house  as 
many  as  fifty.  The  poorer  classes  had  been  accustomed 
from  birth  to  live  as  simply  as.  animals,  —  wearing  scarce- 
ly any  clothing,  sleeping  on  bare  floors,  exposing  them- 
selves to  all  changes  of  weather,  eating  the  cheapest 
and  coarsest  food.  Yet,  though  living  under  such  ad- 
verse conditions,  no  healthier  people  could  be  found, 
perhaps,  in  the  world,  —  nor  a  more  cleanly.  Every  yard 
having  its  fountain,  almost  everybody  could  bathe  daily,— 
and  with  hundreds  it  was  the  custom  to  enter  the  river 
every  morning  at  daybreak,  or  to  take  a  swim  in  the  bay 
(the  young  women  here  swim  as  well  as  the  men).  .  .  . 
But  the  pestilence,  entering  among  so  dense  and  unpro- 
tected a  life,  made  extraordinarily  rapid  havoc  ;  and  bodi- 
ly cleanliness  availed  little  against  the  contagion.  Now  all 


228  Martinique  Sketches. 

the  bathing  resorts  are  deserted, — because  the  lazarettos 
infect  the  bay  with  refuse,  and  because  the  clothing  of 
the  sick  is  washed  in  the  Roxelane. 

.  .  .  Guadeloupe,  the  sister  colony,  now  sends  aid ; — 
the  sum  total  is  less  than  a  single  American  merchant 
might  give  to  a  charitable  undertaking  :  but  it  is  a  great 
deal  for  Guadeloupe  to  give.  And  far  Cayenne  sends 
money  too  ;  and  the  mother-country  will  send  one  hun- 
dred thousand  francs. 


XXL  March  20th. 

.  .  .  THE  infinite  goodness  of  this  colored  population 
to  one  another  is  something  which  impresses  with  aston- 
ishment those  accustomed  to  the  selfishness  of  the  world's 
great  cities.  No  one  is  suffered  to  go  to  the  pest-house 
who  has  a  bed  to  lie  upon,  and  a  single  relative  or  tried 
friend  to  administer  remedies  ; — the  multitude  who  pass 
through  the  lazarettos  are  strangers, — persons  from  the 
country  who  have  no  home  of  their  own,  or  servants 
who  are  not  permitted  to  remain  sick  in  houses  of  em- 
ployers. .  .  .  There  are,  however,  many  cases  where  a 
mistress  will  not  suffer  her  bonne  to  take  the  risks  of  the 
pest-house, — especially  in  families  where  there  are  no 
children  :  the  domestic  is  carefully  nursed  ;  a  physician 
hired  for  her,  remedies  purchased  for  her.  .  .  . 

But  among  the  colored  people  themselves  the  heroism 
displayed  is  beautiful,  is  touching,  —  something  which 
makes  one  doubt  all  accepted  theories  about  the  natural 
egotism  of  mankind,  and  would  compel  the  most  hard- 
ened pessimist  to  conceive  a  higher  idea  of  humanity. 
There  is  never  a  moment's  hesitation  in  visiting  a  strick- 
en individual :  every  relative,  and  even  the  most  intimate 
friends  of  every  relative,  may  be  seen  hurrying  to  the 
bedside.  They  take  turns  at  nursing,  sitting  up  all  night, 
securing  medical  attendance  and  medicines,  without  ever 


La  Verette.  229 

a  thought  of  the  danger, — nay,  of  the  almost  absolute 
certainty  of  contagion.  If  the  patient  have  no  means, 
all  contribute :  what  the  sister  or  brother  has  not,  the 
uncle  or  the  aunt,  the  godfather  or  godmother,  the  cousin, 
brother-in-law  or  sister-in-law,  may  be  able  to  give.  No 
one  dreams  of  refusing  money  or  linen  or  wine  or  any- 
thing possible  to  give,  lend,  or  procure  on  credit.  Wom- 
en seem  to  forget  that  they  are  beautiful,  that  they  are 
young,  that  they  are  loved, —  to  forget  everything  but 
the  sense  of  that  which  they  hold  to  be  duty.  You  see 
young  girls  of  remarkably  elegant  presence, — young  col- 
ored girls  well  educated  and  elevees-en-chapeau*  (that  is 
to  say,  brought  up  like  white  Creole  girls,  dressed  and  ac- 
complished like  them),  voluntarily  leave  rich  homes  to 
nurse  some  poor  mulatress  or  capresse  in  the  indigent 
quarters  of  the  town,  because  the  sick  one  happens  to 
be  a  distant  relative.  They  will  not  trust  others  to  per- 
form this  for  them ; — they  feel  bound  to  do  it  in  person. 
I  heard  such  a  one  say,  in  reply  to  some  earnest  protest 
about  thus  exposing  herself  (she  had  never  been  vac- 
cinated):— "Ah!  quand  il  sagit  du  devoir,  la  vie  ou  la 
mort  c'est  pour  moi  la  meme  chose .^ 

.  .  .  But  without  any  sanitary  law  to  check  this  self- 
immolation,  and  with  the  conviction  that  in  the  presence 
of  duty,  or  what  is  believed  to  be  duty,  "  life  or  death  is 
the  same  thing,"  or  ought  to  be  so  considered, — you  can 
readily  imagine  how  soon  the  city  must  become  one  vast 
hospital. 

XXII. 

...  BY  nine  o'clock,  as  a  general  rule,  St.  Pierre  be- 
comes silent :  every  one  here  retires  early  and  rises 

*  Lit., — "  brought -up -in -a -hat."  To  wear  the  madras  is  to 
acknowledge  oneself  of  color  ;  —  to  follow  the  European  style  of 
dressing  the  hair,  and  adopt  the  costume  of  the  white  Creoles  indi- 
cates a  desire  to  affiliate  with  the  white  class. 


230  Martinique  Sketches. 

with  the  sun.  But  sometimes,  when  the  night  is  excep- 
tionally warm,  people  continue  to  sit  at  their  doors  and 
chat  until  a  far  later  hour ;  and  on  such  a  night  one  may 
hear  and  see  curious  things,  in  this  period  of  plague.  .  .  . 

It  is  certainly  singular  that  while  the  howling  of  a 
dog  at  night  has  no  ghastly  signification  here  (nobody 
ever  pays  the  least  attention  to  the  sound,  however  hide- 
ous), the  moaning,  and  screaming  of  cats  is  believed  to 
bode  death ;  and  in  these  times  folks  never  appear  to 
feel  too  sleepy  to  rise  at  any  hour  and  drive  them  away 
when  they  begin  their  cries.  .  .  .  To-night — a  night  so  op- 
pressive that  all  but  the  sick  are  sitting  up — almost  a 
panic  is  created  in  our  street  by  a  screaming  of  cats ; — 
and  long  after  the  creatures  have  been  hunted  out  of 
sight  and  hearing,  everybody  who  has  a  relative  ill  with 
the  prevailing  malady  continues  to  discuss  the  omen 
with  terror. 

.  .  .  Then  I  observe  a  colored  child  standing  bare- 
footed in  the  moonlight,  with  her  little  round  arms  up- 
lifted and  hands  joined  above  her  head.  A  more  grace- 
ful little  figure  it  would  be  hard  to  find  as  she  appears 
thus  posed ;  but,  all  unconsciously,  she  is  violating  an- 
other superstition  by  this  very  attitude ;  and  the  angry 
mother  shrieks :— 

— "7?  manmaille-la  ! — tire  lanmain-ou  assous  tete-ou, 
foute!  pisse  moin  enco  la  !  .  .  .  Espere  moin  alle  lazarett 
avant  mette  lanmain  conm  $a  !"  (Child,  take  down  your 
hands  from  your  head  .  .  .  because  I  am  here  yet !  Wait 
till  I  go  to  the  lazaretto  before  you  put  up  your  hands 
like  that !) 

For  it  was  the  savage,  natural,  primitive  gesture  of 
mourning, — of  great  despair. 

.  .  .  Then  all  begin  to  compare  their  misfortunes,  to 
relate  their  miseries  ; — they  say  grotesque  things, — even 
make  jests  about  their  troubles.  One  declares  : — 

— "  Si  moin  te  ka  venne  chapeau,  a  fbce  moin  ni  malhe, 


* 
La  Verette.  231 

toutt  manman  se  fai  yche  yo  sans  tete"  (I  have  that  ill- 
luck,  that  if  I  were  selling  hats  all  the  mothers  would 
have  children  without  heads  !) 

— Those  who  sit  at  their  doors,  I  observe,  do  not  sit, 
as  a  rule,  upon  the  steps,  even  when  these  are  of  wood. 
There  is  a  superstition  which  checks  such  a  practice. 
"Si  ou  assise  as  sous  pas-lapote,  ou  ke  pouend  doule  toutt 
moune."  (If  you  sit  upon  the  door-step,  you  will  take 
the  pain  of  all  who  pass  by.) 


XXIII. 

March  30th. 

GOOD  FRIDAY.  ... 

The  bells  have  ceased  to  ring, — even  the  bells  for 
the  dead  ;  the  hours  are  marked  by  cannon-shots.  The 
ships  in  the  harbor  form  crosses  with  their  spars,  turn 
their  flags  upside  down.  And  the  entire  colored  popu- 
lation put  on  mourning : — it  is  a  custom  among  them 
centuries  old. 

You  will  not  perceive  a  single  gaudy  robe  to-day,  a 
single  calendered  Madras :  not  a  speck  of  showy  color 
is  visible  through  all  the  ways  of  St.  Pierre.  The  cos- 
tumes donned  are  all  similar  to  those  worn  for  the  death 
of  relatives :  either  full  mourning, —  a  black  robe  with 
violet  foulard,  and  dark  violet-banded  headkerchief ;  or 
half-mourning, — a  dark  violet  robe  with  black  foulard  and 
turban ; — the  half -mourning  being  worn  only  by  those, 
who  cannot  afford  the  more  sombre  costume.  From  my 
window  I  can  see  long  processions  climbing  the  mornes 
about  the  city,  to  visit  the  shrines  and  crucifixes,  and  to 
pray  for  the  cessation  of  the  pestilence. 

.  .  .  Three  o'clock.  Three  cannon-shots  shake  the 
hills  :  it  is  the  supposed  hour  of  the  Saviour's  death. 
All  believers — whether  in  the  churches,  on  the  high- 
ways, or  in  their  homes — bow  down  and  kiss  the  cross 
thrice,  or,  if  there  be  no  cross,  press  their  lips  three 


* 

232  Martinique  Sketches. 

times  to  the  ground  or  the  pavement,  and  utter  those 
three  wishes  which  if  expressed  precisely  at  this  tradi- 
tional moment  will  surely,  it  is  held,  be  fulfilled.  Im- 
mense crowds  are  assembled  before  the  crosses  on  the 
heights,  and  about  the  statue  of  Notre  Dame  de  la 
Garde. 

.  .  .  There  is  no  hubbub  in  the  streets ;  there  is  not 
even  the  customary  loud  weeping  to  be  heard  as  the 
coffins  go  by.  One  must  not  complain  to-day,  nor  be- 
come angry,  nor  utter  unkind  words, — any  fault  com- 
mitted on  Good  Friday  is  thought  to  obtain  a  special 
and  awful  magnitude  in  the  sight  of  Heaven.  .  .  .  There 
is  a  curious  saying  in  vogue  here.  If  a  son  or  daugh- 
ter grow  up  vicious, — become  a  shame  to  the  family  and 
a  curse  to  the  parents, — it  is  observed  of  such  : — "  Qa, 
c' est  yon  peche  Vendredi- Saint  /"  (Must  be  a  Good-Friday 
sin  /) 

There  are  two  other  strange  beliefs  connected  with 
Good  Friday.  One  is  that  it  always  rains  on  that  day, — 
that  the  sky  weeps  for  the  death  of  the  Saviour ;  and 
that  this  rain,  if  caught  in  a  vessel,  will  never  evaporate 
or  spoil,  and  will  cure  all  diseases. 

The  other  is  that  only  Jesus  Christ  died  precisely  at 
three  o'clock.  Nobody  else  ever  died  exactly  at  that 
hour ; — they  may  die  a  second  before  or  a  second  after 
three,  but  never  exactly  at  three. 

xxiv.  March  31sL 

.  .  .  HOLY  SATURDAY  morning ; — nine  o'clock.  All  the 
bells  suddenly  ring  out ;  the  humming  of  the  bourdon 
blends  with  the  thunder  of  a  hundred  guns :  this  is  the 
Gloria!  ...  At  this  signal  it  is  a  religious  custom  for  the 
whole  coast-population  to  enter  the  sea,  and  for  those 
living  too  far  from  the  beach  to  bathe  in  the  rivers. 
But  rivers  and  sea  are  now  alike  infected ; — all  the  Imen 


La  Verette.  233 

of  the  lazarettos  has  been  washed  therein ;   and  to-day 
there  are  fewer  bathers  than  usual. 

But  there  are  twenty -seven  burials.  Now  they  are 
burying  the  dead  two  together :  the  cemeteries  are  over- 
burdened. ... 

XXV. 

...  IN  most  of  the  old  stone  houses  you  will  occa- 
sionally see  spiders  of  terrifying  size, — measuring  across 
perhaps  as  much  as  six  inches  from  the  tip  of  one  out- 
stretched leg  to  the  tip  of  its  opposite  fellow,  as  they 
cling  to  the  wall.  I  never  heard  of  any  one  being  bit- 
ten by  them ;  and  among  the  poor  it  is  deemed  unlucky 
to  injure  or  drive  them  away.  .  .  .  But  early  this  morn- 
ing Yzore  swept  her  house  clean,  and  ejected  through 
the  door -way  quite  a  host  of  these  monster  insects. 
Manm-Robert  is  quite  dismayed : — 

— "  Jesis-Ma'ia  ! — ou  'le  malhe  enco  pou  fai  ga,  che  ?" 
(You  want  to  have  still  more  bad  luck,  that  you  do  such 
a  thing  ?) 

And  Yzore  answers  : — 

— "Toutt  moune  i$itt  pa  ni  yon  sou! — goubs  conm  fa  fil 
zagrignin,  et  moin  pa  menm  mange!  Epi  laverette  enco.  .  .  . 
Moin  coue  toutt  fa  ka  pote  malhe 7"  (No  one  here  has  a 
sou !  —  heaps  of  cobwebs  like  that,  and  nothing  to  eat 
yet;  and  the  verette  into  the  bargain.  ...  I  think  those 
things  bring  bad  luck.) 

—"Ah!  you  have  not  eaten  yet!"  cries  Manm-Robert. 
"  Vint  epi  moin  /"  (Come  with  me !) 

And  Yzore  —  already  feeling  a  little  remorse  for  her 
treatment  of  the  spiders  —  murmurs  apologetically  as 
she  crosses  over  to  Manm-Robert's  little  shop  : — "Moin 
pa  tchoue  yo;  moin  chasse  yo — ke  vinienco"  (I  did  not  kill 
them;  I  only  put  them  out; — they  will  come  back  again.) 

But  long  afterwards,  Manm-Robert  remarked  to  me 
that  they  never  went  back.  .  .  . 


234  Martinique  Sketches. 

XXVI-  April  5th. 

—"Toutt  bel  bois  ka  alle"  says  Manm-Robert.  (All  the 
beautiful  trees  are  going.)  ...  I  do  not  understand. 

— "Totttt  bel  bois — toutt  bel  moune  ka  alle"  she  adds,  in- 
terpretatively.  (All  the  "beautiful  trees,"— all  the  hand- 
some people, — are  passing  away.)  ...  As  in  the  speech 
of  the  world's  primitive  poets,  so  in  the  Creole  patois  is 
a  beautiful  woman  compared  with  a  comely  tree  :  nay, 
more  than  this,  the  name  of  the  object  is  actually  sub- 
stituted for  that  of  the  living  being.  Yon  bel  bois  may 
mean  a  fine  tree  :  it  more  generally  signifies  a  graceful 
woman :  this  is  the  very  comparison  made  by  Ulysses 
looking  upon  Nausicaa,  though  more  naively  expressed. 
.  .  .  And  now  there  comes  to  me  the  recollection  of  a 
Creole  ballad  illustrating  the  use  of  the  phrase, — a  bal- 
lad about  a  youth  of  Fort-de-France  sent  to  St.  Pierre 
by  his  father  to  purchase  a  stock  of  dobannes,*  who, 
falling  in  love  with  a  handsome  colored  girl,  spent  all 
his  father's  money  in  buying  her  presents  and  a  wed- 
ding outfit : — 

"  Moin  descenne  Saint-Pie 

Achete  dobannes 

Aulie  ces  dobannes 

C'est  yon  bel-bois  moin  mennein  monte!" 

("I  went  down  to  Saint-Pierre  to  buy  dobannes:  instead  of  the 
dobannes,  'tis  a  pretty  tree — a  charming  girl — that  I  bring  back  with 
me.") 

— "  Why,  who  is  dead  now,  Manm-Robert?" 
— "  It  is  little  Marie,  the  porteuse,  who  has  got  the 
verette.     She  is  gone  to  the  lazaretto." 

*  Red  earthen-ware  jars  for  keeping  drinking-water  cool.  The 
origin  of  the  word  is  probably  to  be  sought  in  the  name  of  the  town, 
near  Marseilles,  where  they  are  made, — "Aubagne." 


La  Verette.  235 

XXVII.  April  7th. 

— Toutt  bel  bois  ka  alle,  .  .  .  News  has  just  come  that 
Ti  Marie  died  last  night  at  the  lazaretto  of  the  Fort : 
she  was  attacked  by  what  they  call  the  laverette-pouff, — a 
form  of  the  disease  which  strangles  its  victim  within  a 
few  hours. 

Ti  Marie  was  certainly  the  neatest  little  machanne  I 
ever  knew.  Without  being  actually  pretty,  her  face  had 
a  childish  charm  which  made  it  a  pleasure  to  look  at 
her  •  —  and  she  had  a  clear  chocolate-red  skin,  a  light 
compact  little  figure,  and  a  remarkably  symmetrical  pair 
of  little  feet  which  had  never  felt  the  pressure  of  a  shoe. 
Every  morning  I  used  to  hear  her  passing  cry,  just  about 
daybreak  \—"Qui  '£  cafe  t—qui  'te  strop  ?"  (Who  wants 
coffee  ? — who  wants  syrup  ?)  She  looked  about  sixteen  • 
but  was  a  mother.  "  Where  is  her  husband  ?"  I  ask. 
"  Nhomme-y  mo  laverette  *tou"  (Her  man  died  of  the 
verette  also.)  "And  the  little  one,  her  yche?"  "  Y  laz- 
arett."  (At  the  lazaretto.)  .  .  .  But  only  those  without 
friends  or  relatives  in  the  city  are  suffered  to  go  to  the 
lazaretto; — Ti  Marie  cannot  have  been  of  St.  Pierre  ? 

— "  No  :  she  was  from  Vauclin,"  answers  Manm-Rob- 
ert.  "You  do  not  often  see  pretty  red  girls  who  are 
natives  of  St.  Pierre.  St.  Pierre  has  pretty  sang-melees. 
The  pretty  red  girls  mostly  come  from  Vauclin.  The  yel- 
low ones,  who  are  really  bel-bois,  are  from  Grande  Anse  : 
they  are  banana-colored  people  there.  At  Gros-Morne 
they  are  generally  black." .  .  . 

XXVIII. 

...  IT  appears  that  the  red  race  here,  the  race  capresse, 
is  particularly  liable  to  the  disease.    Every  family  employ- 
ing capresses  for  house-servants  loses  them ; — one  family 
living  at  the  next  corner  has  lost  four  in  succession.  .  .  . 
19 


236  Martinique  Sketches. 

The  tint  is  a  cinnamon  or  chocolate  color ; — the  skin 
is  naturally  clear,  smooth,  glossy :  it  is  of  the  capresse  es- 
pecially that  the  term  "sapota-skin  "  {peau-chapoti)  is 
used, — coupled  with  all  curious  Creole  adjectives  to  ex- 
press what  is  comely, — -jojoll,  beaujoll*  etc.  The  hair  is 
long,  but  bushy ;  the  limbs  light  and  strong,  and  admira- 
bly shaped.  ...  I  am  told  that  when  transported  to  a  cold- 
er climate,  the  capre  or  capresse  partly  loses  this  ruddy 
tint.  Here,  under  the  tropic  sun,  it  has  a  beauty  only 
possible  to  imitate  in  metal.  . . .  And  because  photography 
cannot  convey  any  idea  of  this  singular  color,  the  capresse 
hates  a  photograph. — "Mom  pas  none"  she  says  ; — "  main 
ououge:  oufai  moin  noue  nans  pbtrait-a."  (I  am  not  black : 
I  am  red : — you  make  me  black  in  that  portrait.)  It  is 
difficult  to  make  her  pose  before  the  camera :  she  is  red, 
as  she  avers,  beautifully  red ;  but  the  malicious  instru- 
ment makes  her  gray  or  black — noue  conm  poule-zo-noiie 
("  black  as  a  black-boned  hen  !") 

.  .  .  And  this  red  race  is  disappearing  from  St.  Pierre 
— doubtless  also  from  other  plague-stricken  centres. 

*  I  may  cite  in  this  relation  one  stanza  of  a  Creole  song — very  pop- 
ular in  St.  Pierre — celebrating  the  charms  of  a  little  capresse: — 

"  Moin  toutt  jeine, 
Gouos,  gouas,  vaillant, 
Peau  di  chapoti 
Ka  fai  plaisi; — 
Lapeau  moin 
Li  bien  poli ; 
Et  moin  ka  plai 
Menm  toutt  nhomme  grave!" 

— Which  might  be  freely  rendered  thus : — 

"I  am  dimpled,  young, 
Round-limbed,  and  strong, 
With  sapota-skin 
That  is  good  to  see : 
All  glossy-smooth 
Is  this  skin  of  mine; 
And  the  gravest  men 
Like  to  look  at  me!" 


La  Verette.  237 


April  Wth. 

.  .  .  MANM-ROBERT  is  much  annoyed  and  puzzled  be- 
cause the  American  steamer  —  the  bom-mange,  as  she  calls 
it  —  does  not  come.  It  used  to  bring  regularly  so  many 
barrels  of  potatoes  and  beans,  so  much  lard  and  cheese 
and  garlic  and  dried  pease  —  everything,  almost,  of  which 
she  keeps  a  stock.  It  is  now  nearly  eight  weeks  since 
the  cannon  of  a  New  York  steamer  aroused  the  echoes 
of  the  harbor.  Every  morning  Manm-Robert  has  been 
sending  out  her  little  servant  Louis  to  see  if  there  is  any 
sign  of  the  American  packet:  —  "Alle  one  Batterie  &  Esnotz 
si  bom-mange-  a  pas  vini"  But  Louis  always  returns  with 
the  same  rueful  answer  :  — 

—  "Manm-Robert,  pa  ni  piess  bom-mange"  (there  is  not 
so  much  as  a  bit  of  a  bom-mange}. 

.  .  .  "No  more  American  steamers  for  Martinique:" 
that  is  the  news  received  by  telegraph  !  The  disease  has 
broken  out  among  the  shipping  ;  the  harbors  have  been 
declared  infected.  United  States  mail-packets  drop  their 
Martinique  mails  at  St.  Kitt's  or  Dominica,  and  pass  us 
by.  There  will  be  suffering  now  among  the  canotiers,  the 
caboteurs,  all  those  who  live  by  stowing  or  unloading  car- 
go ;  —  great  warehouses  are  being  closed  up,  and  strong 
men  discharged,  because  there  will  be  nothing  for  them 
to  do. 

.  .  .  They  are  burying  twenty-five  verettiers  per  day  in 
the  city. 

But  never  was  this  tropic  sky  more  beautiful  ;  —  never 
was  this  circling  sea  more  marvellously  blue;  —  never 
were  the  mornes  more  richly  robed  in  luminous  green, 
under  a  more  golden  day.  .  .  .  And  it  seems  strange  that 
Nature  should  remain  so  lovely.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Suddenly  it  occurs  to  me  that  I  have  not  seen 
Yzore  nor  her  children  for  some  days  ;  and  I  wonder  if 


238  Martinique  Sketches. 

they  have  moved  away.  .  .  .  Towards  evening,  passing  by 
Manm-Robert's,  I  ask  about  them.  The  old  woman  an- 
swers me  very  gravely  :  — 

—  "A  to,  mon  che,  c'est  Yzore  qui  ni  laverette!" 
The  mother  has  been  seized  by  the  plague  at  last.  But 
Manm-Robert  will  look  after  her;  and  Manm-  Robert  has 
taken  charge  of  the  three  little  ones,  who  are  not  now  al- 
lowed to  leave  the  house,  for  fear  some  one  should  tell 
them  what  it  were  best  they  should  not  know.  .  .  .  Pauv 
ti  manmaille! 


April  13th. 

.  .  .  STILL  the  verette  does  not  attack  the  native  whites. 
But  the  whole  air  has  become  poisoned  ;  the  sanitary 
condition  of  the  city  becomes  unprecedentedly  bad;  and  a 
new  epidemic  makes  its  appearance,  —  typhoid  fever.  And 
now  the  bekes  begin  to  go,  especially  the  young  and  strong; 
and  the  bells  keep  sounding  for  them,  and  the  tolling 
bourdon  fills  the  city  with  its  enormous  hum  all  day  and 
far  into  the  night.  For  these  are  rich  ;  and  the  high  so- 
lemnities of  burial  are  theirs  —  the  coffin  of  acajou,  and 
the  triple  ringing,  and  the  Cross  of  Gold  to  be  carried 
before  them  as  they  pass  to  their  long  sleep  under  the 
palms,  —  saluted  for  the  last  time  by  all  the  population 
of  St.  Pierre,  standing  bareheaded  in  the  sun.  .  .  . 

...  Is  it  in  times  like  these,  when  all  the  condi- 
tions are  febrile,  that  one  is  most  apt  to  have  queer 
dreams  ? 

Last  night  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  that  Carnival 
dance  again,  —  the  hooded  musicians,  the  fantastic  tor- 
rent of  peaked  caps,  and  the  spectral  masks,  and  the 
swaying  of  bodies  and  waving  of  arms,  —  but  soundless 
as  a  passing  of  smoke.  There  were  figures  I  thought  I 
knew;  —  hands  I  had  somewhere  seen  reached  out  and 
touched  me  in  silence  ;  —  and  then,  all  suddenly,  a  View- 
less Something  seemed  to  scatter  the  shapes  as  leaves 


La  Vtrette.  239 

are  blown  by  a  wind.  .  .  .  And  waking,  I  thought  I  heard 
again, — plainly  as  on  that  last  Carnival  afternoon, — the 
strange  cry  of  fear: — "C'est  Bon-Die  ka passe!" .  .  . 


XXXI.  April  20th. 

.  .  .  VERY  early  yesterday  morning  Yzore  was  carried 
away  under  a  covering  of  quick-lime :  the  children  do 
not  know;  Manm- Robert  took  heed  they  should  not  see. 
They  have  been  told  their  mother  has  been  taken  to  the 
country  to  get  well, — that  the  doctor  will  bring  her  back 
soon.  ...  All  the  furniture  is  to  be  sold  at  auction  to 
pay  the  debts;  —  the  landlord  was  patient,  he  waited 
four  months ;  the  doctor  was  kindly :  but  now  these 
must  have  their  due.  Everything  will  be  bidden  off, 
except  the  chapelle,  with  its  Virgin  and  angels  of  porce- 
lain :  yo  pa  ka  pe  venne  Bon-Die  (the  things  of  the  Good- 
God  must  not  be  sold).  And  Manm-Robert  will  take  care 
of  the  little  ones. 

The  bed  —  a  relic  of  former  good- fortune, —  a  great 
Martinique  bed  of  carved  heavy  native  wood, — a  lit-a- 
bateau  (boat-bed),  so  called  because  shaped  almost  like 
a  barge,  perhaps  —  will  surely  bring  three  hundred 
francs; — the  armoire,with  its  mirror  doors,  not  less  than 
two  hundred  and  fifty.  There  is  little  else  of  value:  the 
whole  will  not  fetch  enough  to  pay  all  the  dead  owes. 

xxxii.  April  mh 

— Tarn-tam-tam  ! — tam-tam-tam  ! .  .  .  It  is  the  booming 
of  the  auction-drum  from  the  Place :  Yzore's  furniture  is 
about  to  change  hands. 

The  children  start  at  the  sound,  so  vividly  associated 
in  their  minds  with  the  sights  of  Carnival  days,  with  the 
fantastic  mirth  of  the  great  processional  dance  :  they  run 
to  the  sunny  street,  calling  to  each  other, —  Vint  oue  / — 


240  Martinique  Sketches. 

they  look  up  and  down.  But  there  is  a  great  quiet  in 
the  Rue  du  Morne  Mirail ; — the  street  is  empty. 

.  .  .  Manm-Robert  enters  very  weary :  she  has  been  at 
the  sale,  trying  to  save  something  for  the  children,  but 
the  prices  were  too  high.  In  silence  she  takes  her  ac- 
customed seat  at  the  worn  counter  of  her  little  shop  ;  the 
young  ones  gather  about  her,  caress  her; — Mimi  looks  up 
laughing  into  the  kind  brown  face,  and  wonders  why 
Manm-Robert  will  not  smile.  Then  Mimi  becomes  afraid 
to  ask  where  the  maskers  are, — why  they  do  not  come. 
But  little  Maurice,  bolder  and  less  sensitive,  cries  out :— 

— "Manm-Robert,  oti  masque-a  ?" 

Manm-Robert  does  not  answer ; — she  does  not  hear. 
She  is  gazing  directly  into  the  young  faces  clustered  about 
her  knee, — yet  she  does  not  see  them  :  she  sees  far,  far 
beyond  them, — into  the  hidden  years.  And,  suddenly, 
with  a  savage  tenderness  in  her  voice,  she  utters  all  the 
dark  thought  of  her  heart  for  them  : — 

— "  Tona  ti  b lanes  sans  lesou! — quitte  moin  chache  papa- 
ou  qui  adans  cimetie  pou  vini  pouend  ou  tou  /"  (Ye  three 
little  penniless  white  ones ! — let  me  go  call  your  father, 
who  is  in  the  cemetery,  to  come  and  take  you  also  away  !) 


LES    BLANCHISSEUSES. 
I. 

WHOEVER  stops  for  a  few  months  in  St.  Pierre  is  certain, 
sooner  or  later,  to  pass  an  idle  half-hour  in  that  charm- 
ing place  of  Martinique  idlers, — the  beautiful  Savane  du 
Fort, — and,  once  there,  is  equally  certain  to  lean  a  little 
while  over  the  mossy  parapet  of  the  river-wall  to  watch 
the  blanchisseuses  at  work.  It  has  a  curious  interest,  this 
spectacle  of  primitive  toil :  the  deep  channel  of  the  Roxe- 
lane  winding  under  the  palm -crowned  heights  of  the 
Fort ;  the  blinding  whiteness  of  linen  laid  out  to  bleach 
for  miles  upon  the  huge  bowlders  of  porphyry  and  pris- 
matic basalt ;  and  the  dark  bronze-limbed  women,  with 
faces  hidden  under  immense  straw  hats,  and  knees  in  the 
rushing  torrent, — all  form  a  scene  that  makes  one  think 
of  the  earliest  civilizations.  Even  here,  in  this  modern 
colony,  it  is  nearly  three  centuries  old ;  and  it  will  prob- 
ably continue  thus  at  the  Riviere  des  Blanchisseuses  for 
fully  another  three  hundred  years.  Quaint  as  certain 
weird  Breton  legends  whereof  it  reminds  you, — especially 
if  you  watch  it  before  daybreak  while  the  city  still  sleeps, 
— this  fashion  of  washing  is  not  likely  to  change.  There 
is  a  local  prejudice  against  new  methods,  new  inventions, 
new  ideas , — several  efforts  at  introducing  a  less  savage 
style  of  washing  proved  unsuccessful ;  and  an  attempt  to 
establish  a  steam-laundry  resulted  in  failure.  The  pub- 
lic were  quite  contented  with  the  old  ways  of  laundrying, 
and  saw  no  benefits  to  be  gained  by  forsaking  them  ; — 
while  the  washers  and  ironers  engaged  by  the  laundry 


242  Martinique  Sketches. 

proprietor  at  higher  rates  than  they  had  ever  obtained 
before  soon  weaned  of  in-door  work,  abandoned  their 
situations,  and  returned  with  a  sense  of  relief  to  their  an- 
cient way  of  working  out  in  the  blue  air  and  the  wind  of 
the  hills,  with  their  feet  in  the  mountain-water  and  their 
heads  in  the  awful  sun. 

...  It  is  one  of  the  sights  of  St.  Pierre, — this  daily 
scene  at  the  River  of  the  Washerwomen  :  everybody  likes 
to  watch  it ; — the  men,  because  among  the  blanchisseuses 
there  are  not  a  few  decidedly  handsome  girls  ;  the  wom- 
en, probably  because  a  woman  feels  always  interested  in 
woman's  work.  All  the  white  bridges  of  the  Roxelane  are 
dotted  with  lookers-on  during  fine  days,  and  particularly 
in  the  morning,  when  every  bonne  on  her  way  to  and  from 
the  market  stops  a  moment  to  observe  or  to  greet  those 
blanchisseuses  whom  she  knows.  Then  one  hears  such 
a  calling  and  clamoring, — such  an  intercrossing  of  cries 
from  the  bridge  to  the  river,  and  the  river  to  the  bridge. 
.  .  .  "  Ouill !  Noe'mi !".'..  "  Coument  ou  ye,  che  ?"  .  .  . 
"  Eh  !  Pascaline  !"  .  .  .  "  Bonjou',  Youtte  !  —  Dede  !  - 
Fifi  !— Henrillia  !"...."  Coument  ou  kalle,  Cyrillia  ?"  .  .  . 
"Toutt  douce,  che  !  — et  Ti  Me'me  ?"....  "  V  bien  ;  — oti 
Ninotte  ?"  .  .  .  "  Bo  ti  manmaille  pou  mom,  che  —  ou 
tanne  ?"  . ..  .  But  the  bridge  leading  to  the  market  of  the 
Fort  is  the  poorest  point  of  view ;  for  the  better  classes 
of  blanchisseuses  are  not  there  :  only  the  lazy,  the  weak, 
or  non-professionals — house-servants,  who  do  washing  at 
the  river  two  or  three  times  a  month  as  part  of  their  fam- 
ily-service— are  apt  to  get  so  far  down.  The  experienced 
professionals  and  early  risers  secure  the  best  places  and 
choice  of  rocks ;  and  among  the  hundreds  at  work  you 
can  discern  something  like  a  physical  gradation.  At  the 
next  bridge  the  women  look  better,  stronger;  more  young 
faces  appear;  and  the  further  you  follow  the  river-course 
towards  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  the  more  the  appearance 
of  the  blanchisseuses  improves, — so  that  within  the  space 


Les  Blanchisseuses.  243 

of  a  mile  you  can  see  well  exemplified  one  natural  law 
of  life's  struggle, — the  best  chances  to  the  best  constitu- 
tions. 

You  might  also  observe,  if  you  watch  long  enough, 
that  among  the  blanchisseuses  there  are  few  sufficiently 
light  of  color  to  be  classed  as  bright  mulatresses ; — the 
majority  are  black  or  of  that  dark  copper-red  race  which 
is  perhaps  superior  to  the  black  Creole  in  strength  and 
bulk ;  for  it  requires  a  skin  insensible  to  sun  as  well  as 
the  toughest  of  constitutions  to  be  a  blanchisseuse.  A 
porteuse  can  begin  to  make  long  trips  at  nine  or  ten 
years ;  but  no  girl  is  strong  enough  to  learn  the  wash- 
ing-trade until  she  is  past  twelve.  The  blanchisseuse  is 
the  hardest  worker  among  the  whole  population ;—  her 
daily  labor  is  rarely  less  than  thirteen  hours ;  and  dur- 
ing the  greater  part  of  that  time  she  is  working  in  the 
sun,  and  standing  up  to  her  knees  in  water  that  descends 
quite  cold  from  the  mountain  peaks.  Her  labor  makes 
her  perspire. profusely ;  and  she  can  never  venture  to 
cool  herself  by  further  immersion  without  serious  danger 
of  pleurisy.  The  trade  is  said  to  kill  all  who  continue 
at  it  beyond  a  certain  number  of  years  : — "Nou  ka  mb 
toutt  dleau  "  (we  all  die  of  the  water),  one  told  me,  reply- 
ing to  a  question.  No  feeble  or  light-skinned  person 
can  attempt  to  do  a  single  day's  work  of  this  kind  with- 
out danger ;  and  a  weak  girl,  driven  by  necessity  to  do 
her  own  washing,  seldom  ventures  to  go  to  the  river. 
Yet  I  saw  an  instance  of  such  rashness  one  day.  A 
pretty  sang -melee,  perhaps  about  eighteen  or  nineteen 
years  old, — whom  I  afterwards  learned  had  just  lost  her 
mother  and  found  herself  thus  absolutely  destitute, — 
began  to  descend  one  of  the  flights  of  stone  steps  lead- 
ing to  the  river,  with  a  small  bundle  upon  her  head ;  and 
two  or  three  of  the  blanchisseuses  stopped  their  work 
to  look  at  her.  A  tall  capresse  inquired  mischiev- 
ously : — 


244  Martinique  Sketches. 

— "  Ou  vini  pou  pouend  yon  bain?"     (Coming  to  take 
a  bath  ?)     For  the  river  is  a  great  bathing-place. 

— "  Non;  moin  vini  lave"  (No  ;  I  am  coming  to  wash.) 
— "Ate!  die!  ate! — y  vini  lave  I"  .  .  .  And  all  within 
hearing  laughed  together.  "Are  you  crazy,  girl? — ess 
oufou?"  The  tall  capresse  snatched  the  bundle  from 
her>  opened  it,  threw  a  garment  to  her  nearest  neighbor, 
another  to  the  next  one,  dividing  the  work  among  a  little 
circle  of  friends,  and  said  to  the  stranger,  "  Non  ke  lave 
toutt  c.a  ba  ou  bien  vite,  che, — va,  amise  ou !"  (We'll 
wash  this  for  you  very  quickly,  dear  —  go  and  amuse 
yourself!)  These  kind  women  even  did  more  for  the 
poor  girl ; — they  subscribed  to  buy  her  a  good  breakfast, 
when  the  food-seller — the  machanne-mange — made  her 
regular  round  among  them,  with  fried  fish  and  eggs  and 
manioc  flour  and  bananas. 


II. 

ALL  of  the  multitude  who  wash  clothing  at  the  river  are 
not  professional  blanchisseuses.  Hundreds  of  women, 
too  poor  to  pay  for  laundrying,  do  their  own  work  at  the 
Roxelane ; — and  numerous  bonnes  there  wash  the  linen 
of  their  mistresses  as  a  regular  part  of  their  domestic 
duty.  But  even  if  the  professionals  did  not  always  oc- 
cupy a  certain  well-known  portion  of  the  channel,  they 
could  easily  be  distinguished  from  others  by  their  rapid 
and  methodical  manner  of  work,  by  the  ease  with  which 
immense  masses  of  linen  are  handled  by  them,  and, 
above  all,  by  their  way  of  whipping  it  against  the  rocks. 
Furthermore,  the  greater  number  of  professionals  are 
likewise  teachers,  mistresses  (bourgeoises),  and  have  their 
apprentices  beside  them, — young  girls  from  twelve  to 
sixteen  years  of  age.  Among  these  apprenti,  as  they  are 
called  in  the  patois,  there  are  many  attractive  types,  such 
as  idlers  upon  the  bridges  like  to  look  at. 


Les  Blanchisseuses.  245 

If,  after  one  year  of  instruction,  the  apprentice  fails 
to  prove  a  good  washer,  it  is  not  likely  she  will  ever 
become  one ;  and  there  are  some  branches  of  the  trade 
requiring  a  longer  period  of  teaching  and  of  practice. 
The  young  girl  first  learns  simply  to  soap  and  wash  the 
linen  in  the  river,  which  operation  is  called  "rubbing" 
(frotte  in  creole)  ;— after  she  can  do  this  pretty  well,  she 
is  taught  the  curious  art  of  whipping  it  (fesse).  You  can 
hear  the  sound  of  the  fesse'  a  great  way  off,  echoing  and 
re-echoing  among  the  mornes :  it  is  not  a  sharp  smack- 
ing noise,  as  the  name  might  seem  to  imply,  but  a  heavy 
hollow  sound  exactly  like  that  of  an  axe  splitting  dry 
timber.  In  fact,  it  so  closely  resembles  the  latter  sound 
that  you  are  apt  on  first  hearing  it  to  look  up  at  the 
mornes  with  the  expectation  of  seeing  woodmen  there 
at  work.  And  it  is  not  made  by  striking  the  linen  with 
anything,  but  only  by  lashing  it  against  the  sides  of  the 
rocks.  .  .  .  After  a  piece  has  been  well  rubbed  and  rinsed, 
it  is  folded  up  into  a  peculiar  sheaf-shape,  and  seized  by 
the  closely  gathered  end  for  the  fesse.  Then  the  folding 
process  is  repeated  on  the  reverse,  and  the  other  end 
whipped.  This  process  expels  suds  that  rinsing  cannot 
remove :  it  must  be  done  very  dexterously  to  avoid  tear- 
ing or  damaging  the  material.  By  an  experienced  hand 
the  linen  is  never  torn ;  and  even  pearl  and  bone  but- 
tons are  much  less  often  broken  than  might  be  sup- 
posed. The  singular  echo  is  altogether  due  to  the  man- 
ner of  folding  the  article  for  the  fesse. 

After  this,  all  the  pieces  are  spread  out  upon  the  rocks, 
in  the  sun,  for  the  "  first  bleaching  "  (pouemie  lablanie). 
In  the  evening  they  are  gathered  into  large  wooden  trays 
or  baskets,  and  carried  to  what  is  called  the  "  lye-house  " 
(lacaie  lessive) — overlooking  the  river  from  a  point  on  the 
Fort  bank  opposite  to  the  higher  end  of  the  Savane. 
Here  each  blanchisseuse  hires  a  small  or  a  large  vat,  or 
even  several, — according  to  the  quantity  of  work  done, — 


246  Martinique  Sketches. 

at  two,  three,  or  ten  sous,  and  leaves  her  washing  to  steep 
in  lye  (conle  is  the  Creole  word  used)  during  the  night. 
There  are  watchmen  to  guard  it.  Before  daybreak  it  is 
rinsed  in  warm  water ;  then  it  is  taken  back  to  the  riv- 
er,— is  rinsed  again,  bleached  again,  blued  and  starched. 
Then  it  is  ready  for  ironing.  To  press  and  iron  well  is 
the  most  difficult  part  of  the  trade.  When  an  apprentice 
is  able  to  iron  a  gentleman's  shirt  nicely,  and  a  pair  of 
white  pantaloons,  she  is  considered  to  have  finished  her 
time; — she  becomes  a  journey-woman  (ouvouiye). 

Even  in  a  country  where  wages  are  almost  incredibly 
low,  the  blanchisseuse  earns  considerable  money.  There 
is  no  fixed  scale  of  prices:  it  is  even  customary  to  bar- 
gain with  these  women  beforehand.  Shirts  and  white 
pantaloons  figure  at  six  and  eight  cents  in  laundry  bills ; 
but  other  washing  is  much  cheaper.  I  saw  a  lot  of  thir- 
ty-three pieces — including  such  large  ones  as  sheets,  bed- 
covers, and  several  douillettes  (the  long  Martinique  trail- 
ing robes  of  one  piece  from  neck  to  feet) — for  which 
only  three  francs  was  charged.  Articles  are  frequently 
stolen  or  lost  by  house-servants  sent  to  do  washing  at 
the  river ;  but  very  seldom  indeed  by  the  regular  blan- 
chisseuses.  Few  of  them  can  read  or  write  or  under- 
stand owners'  marks  on  wearing  apparel ;  and  when  you 
see  at  the  river  the  wilderness  of  scattered  linen,  the 
seemingly  enormous  confusion,  you  cannot  understand 
how  these  women  manage  to  separate  and  classify  it 
all.  Yet  they  do  this  admirably, — and  for  that  reason 
perhaps  more  than  any  other,  are  able  to  charge  fair 
rates ; — it  is  false  economy  to  have  your  washing  done 
by  the  house-servant ; — with  the  professionals  your  prop- 
erty is  safe.  And  cheap  as  her  rates  are,  a  good  profes- 
sional can  make  from  twenty-five  to  thirty  francs  a  week; 
averaging  fully  a  hundred  francs  a  month, — as  much  as 
many  a  white  clerk  can  earn  in  the  stores  of  St.  Pierre, 
and  quite  as  much  (considering  local  differences  in  the 


Les  Blanc  his  senses.  247 

purchasing  power  of  money)  as  $60  per  month  would 
represent  in  the  United  States. 

Probably  the  ability  to  earn  large  wages  often  tempts 
the  blanchisseuse  to  continue  at  her  trade  until  it  kills 
her.  The  "water-disease,"  as  she  calls  it  (maladie-dleau), 
makes  its  appearance  after  middle-life:  the  feet,  lower 
limbs,  and  abdomen  swell  enormously,  while  the  face  be- 
comes almost  fleshless; — then,  gradually  tissues  give  way, 
muscles  yield,  and  the  whole  physical  structure  crumbles. 

Nevertheless,  the  blanchisseuse  is  essentially  a  sober 
liver, —  never  a  drunkard.  In  fact,  she  is  sober  from 
rigid  necessity:  she  would  not  dare  to  swallow  one 
mouthful  of  spirits  while  at  work  with  her  feet  in  the 
cold  water; — everybody  else  in  Martinique,  even  the  lit- 
tle children,  can  drink  rum ;  the  blanchisseuse  cannot, 
unless  she  wishes  to  die  of  a  congestion.  Her  strong- 
est refreshment  is  mabi, —  a  mild,  effervescent,  and,  I 
think,  rather  disagreeable,  beer  made  from  molasses. 


III. 

ALWAYS  before  daybreak  they  rise  to  work,  while  the 
vapors  of  the  mornes  fill  the  air  with  scent  of  mouldering 
vegetation, — clayey  odors, — grassy  smells  :  there  is  only 
a  faint  gray  light,  and  the  water  of  the  river  is  very  chill. 
One  by  one  they  arrive,  barefooted,  under  their  burdens 
built  up  tower-shape  on  their  trays ; — silently  as  ghosts 
they  descend  the  steps  to  the  river-bed,  and  begin  to  un- 
fold and  immerse  their  washing.  They  greet  each  other 
as  they  come,  then  become  silent  again  ;  there  is  scarcely 
any  talking :  the  hearts  of  all  are  heavy  with  the  heavi- 
ness of  the  hour.  But  the  gray  light  turns  yellow ;  the 
sun  climbs  over  the  peaks  :  light  changes  the  dark  water 
to  living  crystal;  and  all  begin  to  chatter  a  little.  Then 
the  city  awakens ;  the  currents  of  its  daily  life  circulate 
again, — thinly  and  slowly  at  first,  then  swiftly  and  strong- 


248  Martinique  Sketches. 

ly, — up  and  down  every  yellow  street,  and  through  the 
Savane,  and  over  the  bridges  of  the  river.  Passers-by 
pause  to  look  down,  and  cry  "  bonjou',  chl !"  Idle  men 
stare  at  some  pretty  washer,  till  she  points  at  them  and 
cries: — "Gade  Missie-a  ka  guette  nou! — anh! — an/if — 
anh  /"  And  all  the  others  look  up  and  repeat  the 
groan — "anh! — anh! — anhT  till  the  starers  beat  a  re- 
treat. The  air  grows  warmer ;  the  sky  blue  takes  fire : 
the  great  light  makes  joy  for  the  washers  ;  they  shout  to 
each  other  from  distance  to  distance,  jest,  laugh,  sing. 
Gusty  of  speech  these  women  are  :  long  habit  of  calling 
to  one  another  through  the  roar  of  the  torrent  has  giv- 
en their  voices  a  singular  sonority  and  force  :  it  is  well 
worth  while  to  hear  them  sing.  One  starts  the  song,— 
the  next  joins  her ;  then  another  and  another,  till  all  the 
channel  rings  with  the  melody  from  the  bridge  of  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes  to  the  Pont-bois  :— 

"  C'est  moin  qui  te  ka  lave, 
Passe,  raccommode : 
Y  te  nef  he  disoue 
Ou  mette  moin  derho, — 
Yche  moin  assous  bouas  moin  ; — 
Laplie  te  ka  tombe — 
Lefan  moin  assous  tete  moin ! 
Doudoux,  ou  m'abandonne! 
Moin  pa  ni  pesonne  pou  soigne  moin."  * 

...  A  melancholy  chant — originally  a  Carnival  improv- 
isation made  to  bring  public  shame  upon  the  perpetra- 
tor of  a  cruel  act ; — but  it  contains  the  story  of  many 
of  these  lives  —  the  story  of  industrious  affectionate 
women  temporarily  united  to  brutal  and  worthless  men 

*  It  was  I  who  washed  and  ironed  and  mended ; — at  nine  o'clock 
at  night  thou  didst  put  me  out-of-doors,  with  my  child  in  my  arms, — 
the  rain  was  falling, — with  my  poor  straw  mattress  upon  my  head  ! 
.  .  .  Doudoux  !  thou  dost  abandon  me  !  .  .  .  I  have  none  to  care  for 
me. 


Les  Blanchisseuses.  249 

in  a  country  where  legal  marriages  are  rare.  Half  of 
the  Creole  songs  which  I  was  able  to  collect  during  a 
residence  of  nearly  two  years  in  the  island  touch  upon 
the  same  sad  theme.  Of  these,  "  Che  Manman  Moin,"  a 
great  favorite  still  with  the  older  blanchisseuses,  has  a 
simple  pathos  unrivalled,  I  believe,  in  the  oral  literature 
of  this  people.  Here  is  an  attempt  to  translate  its  three 
rhymeless  stanzas  into  prose ;  but  the  childish  sweetness 
of  the  patois  original  is  lost : — 

CHE  MANMAN  MOIN. 
I. 

..."  Dear  mamma,  once  you  were  young  like  I ; — dear  papa,  you 
also  have  been  young ; — dear  great  elder  brother,  you  too  have  been 
young.  Ah  !  let  me  cherish  this  sweet  friendship  ! — so  sick  my 
heart  is — yes,  'tis  very,  very  ill,  this  heart  of  mine :  love,  only  love 
can  make  it  well  again.".  .  . 

II. 

"  O  cursed  eyes  he  praised  that  led  me  to  him  !  O  cursed  lips  of 
mine  which  ever  repeated  his  name  !  O  cursed  moment  in  which  I 
gave  up  my  heart  to  the  ingrate  who  no  longer  knows  how  to  love. ".  .  . 


"  Doudoux,  you  swore  to  me  by  Heaven! — doudoux,  you  swore  to 
me  by  your  faith  !  .  .  .  And  now  you  cannot  come  to  me  ? .  .  .  Oh  ! 
my  heart  is  withering  with  pain  !  .  .  .  I  was  passing  by  the  ceme- 
tery; — I  saw  my  name  upon  a  stone  —  all  by  itself.  I  saw  two 
white  roses ;  and  in  a  moment  one  faded  and  fell  before  me.  ...  So 
my  forgotten  heart  will  be  !".  .  . 

The  air  is  not  so  charming,  however,  as  that  of  a  little 
song  which  every  Creole  knows,  and  which  may  be  often 
heard  still  at  the  river  :  I  think  it  is  the  prettiest  of  all 
Creole  melodies.  "  To-to-to  "  (patois  for  the  French  toe) 
is  an  onomatope  for  the  sound  of  knocking  at  a  door. 

"70,  to,  to! — '  £a  qui  la?' 
— '  C'est  moin-menme,  lanmou  ; — 
Ouve  lapott  ba  moin  !' 
20 


250  Martinique  Sketches. 

11  To,  to,  to/— 'Ca  qui  la?' 
— '  C'est  moin-menme  lanmou, 
Qui  ka  ba  ou  khe  moin!' 

"To,  to,  to  .'—'§&  qui  la?' 
— '  C'est  moin-menme  lanmou  ; 
Laplie  ka  mouille  moin  !'  " 

\To-to-to.  .  ."  Who  taps  there  ?" — "  'Tis  mine  own  self  Love:  open 
the  door  for  me." 

To-to-to,  .  . "  Who  taps  there?" — "  'Tis  mine  own  self  Love,  who 
give  my  heart  to  thee." 

To-to-to.  .  ."  Who  taps  there?" — "  'Tis  mine  own  self  Love:  open 
thy  door  to  me  ; — the  rain  is  wetting  me  !".  .  .] 

.  .  .  But  it  is  more  common  to  hear  the  blanchisseuses 
singing  merry,  jaunty,  sarcastic  ditties, — Carnival  com- 
positions,—  in  which  the  African  sense  of  rhythmic 
melody  is  more  marked:  — "  Marie  -Clemence  maudi," 
"  Loema  tombe,"  "  Quand  ou  ni  ti  mari  jojoll."* 

— At  mid-day  the  machanne-mange  comes,  with  her 
girls, — carrying  trays  of  fried  fish,  and  akras,  and  cooked 
beans,  and  bottles  of  mabi.  The  blanchisseuses  buy, 
and  eat  with  their  feet  in  the  water,  using  rocks  for 
tables.  Each  has  her  little  tin  cup  to  drink  her  mabi 
in.  ...  Then  the  washing  and  the  chanting  and  the 
booming  of  the  fesse  begin  again.  Afternoon  wanes ; — 
school-hours  close  ;  and  children  of  many  beautiful  col- 
ors come  to  the  river,  and  leap  down  the  steps  crying, 
"Eti!  manmanF — "Stst!"  —  "  Nenwine  !"  calling  their 
elder  sisters,  mothers,  and  godmothers :  the  little  boys 
strip  naked  to  play  in  the  water  a  while.  .  .  .  Towards 
sunset  the  more  rapid  and  active  workers  begin  to  gather 
in  their  linen,  and  pile  it  on  trays.  Large  patches  of 
bald  rock  appear  again.  ...  By  six  o'clock  almost  the 
whole  bed  of  the  river  is  bare ; — the  women  are  nearly 
all  gone.  A  few  linger  a  while  on  the  Savane,  to  watch 

*  See  Appendix  for  specimens  of  Creole  music. 


Les  Blanchisseuses.  251 

the  last-comer.  There  is  always  a  great  laugh  at  the 
last  to  leave  the  channel :  they  ask  her  if  she  has  not 
forgotten  "to  lock  up  the  river." 

— "Oufeme  lapote  larivie,  che — anh  ?" 

— "Ah!  oui,  che ! — main  feme  y,  ou  tanne? — moin  ni 
lacle-a  /"  (Oh  yes,  dear.  I  locked  it  up, — you  hear  ? — 
I've  got  the  key !) 

But  there  are  days  and  weeks  when  they  do  not  sing, — 
times  of  want  or  of  plague,  when  the  silence  of  the 
valley  is  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  linen  beaten  upon 
the  rocks,  and  the  great  voice  of  the  Roxelane,  which 
will  sing  on  when  the  city  itself  shall  have  ceased  to  be, 
just  as  it  sang  one  hundred  thousand  years  ago.  .  .  . 
"  Why  do  they  not  sing  to-day  ?"  I  once  asked  during 
the  summer  of  1887, — a  year  of  pestilence.  "Yo~ka 
pense  toutt  lanmize  yo, — toutt  lapeine  yo"  I  was  answered. 
(They  are  thinking  of  all  their  trouble,  all  their  misery.) 
Yet  in  all  seasons,  while  youth  and  strength  stay  with 
them,  they  work  on  in  wind  and  sun,  mist  and  rain, 
washing  the  linen  of  the  living  and  the  dead, — white 
wraps  for  the  newly  born,  white  robes  for  the  bride, 
white  shrouds  for  them  that  pass  into  the  Great  Silence. 
And  the  torrent  that  wears  away  the  ribs  of  the  perpet- 
ual hills  wears  away  their  lives, —  sometimes  slowly, 
slowly  as  black  basalt  is  worn, — sometimes  suddenly, — 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

For  a  strange  danger  ever  menaces  the  blanchis- 
seuse, — the  treachery  of  the  stream !  .  .  .  Watch  them 
working,  and  observe  how  often  they  turn  their  eyes  to 
the  high  north-east,  to  look  at  Pele'e.  Pele'e  gives  them 
warning  betimes.  When  all  is  sunny  in  St.  Pierre,  and 
the  harbor  lies  blue  as  lapis-lazuli,  there  may  be  mighty 
rains  in  the  region  of  the  great  woods  and  the  valleys  of 
the  higher  peaks ;  and  thin  streams  swell  to  raging  floods 
which  burst  suddenly  from  the  altitudes,  rolling  down 


252  Martinique  Sketches. 

rocks  and  trees  and  wreck  of  forests,  uplifting  crags,  de- 
vastating slopes.  And  sometimes,  down  the  ravine  of 
the  Roxelane,  there  comes  a  roar  as  of  eruption,  with 
a  rush  of  foaming  water  like  a  moving  mountain-wall ; 
and  bridges  and  buildings  vanish  with  its  passing.  In 
1865  the  Savane,  high  as  it  lies  above  the  river-bed, 
was  flooded ; — and  all  the  bridges  were  swept  into  the 
sea. 

So  the  older  and  wiser  blanchisseuses  keep  watch  upon 
Pelee  ;  and  if  a  blackness  gather  over  it,  with  lightnings 
breaking  through,  then — however  fair  the  sun  shine  on 
St.  Pierre — the  alarm  is  given,  the  miles  of  bleaching 
linen  vanish  from  the  rocks  in  a  few  minutes,  and  every 
one  leaves  the  channel.  But  it  has  occasionally  hap- 
pened that  Pelee  gave  no  such  friendly  signal  before 
the  river  rose :  thus  lives  have  been  lost.  Most  of  the 
blanchisseuses  are  swimmers,  and  good  ones, — I  have 
seen  one  of  these  girls  swim  almost  out  of  sight  in  the 
harbor,  during  an  idle  hour ; — but  no  swimmer  has  any 
chances  in  a  rising  of  the  Roxelane  :  all  overtaken  by  it 
are  stricken  by  rocks  and  drift ; — yo  craze,  as  a  Creole 
term  expresses  it, — a  term  signifying  to  crush,  to  bray, 
to  dash  to  pieces. 

.  .  .  Sometimes  it  happens  that  one  who  has  been  ab- 
sent at  home  for  a  brief  while  returns  to  the  river  only 
to  meet  her  comrades  fleeing  from  it, — many  leaving 
their  linen  behind  them.  But  she  will  not  abandon  the 
linen  intrusted  to  her :  she  makes  a  run  for  it, — in  spite 
of  warning  screams, — in  spite  of  the  vain  clutching  of 
kind  rough  fingers.  She  gains  the  river-bed  ; — the  flood 
has  already  reached  her  waist,  but  she  is  strong;  she 
reaches  her  linen, — snatches  it  up,  piece  by  piece,  scat- 
tered as  it  is — "one! — two! — five! — seven  !";— there  is  a 
roaring  in  her  ears — "eleven! — thirteen!"  she  has  it  all 
.  .  .  but  now  the  rocks  are  moving !  For  one  instant 
she  strives  to  reach  the  steps,  only  a  few  yards  off; — • 


Les  Blanchisseuses.  253 

another,  and  the  thunder  of  the  deluge  is  upon  her, — 
and  the  crushing  crags, — and  the  spinning  trees.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  before  sundown  some  canotier  may  find  her 
floating  far  in  the  bay, — drifting  upon  her  face  in  a  thou- 
sand feet  of  water, — with  faithful  dead  hands  still  hold- 
ing fast  the  property  of  her  employer. 


LA    PELEE. 
I. 

THE  first  attempt  made  to  colonize  Martinique  was 
abandoned  almost  as  soon  as  begun,  because  the  leaders 
of  the  expedition  found  the  country  "too  rugged  and 
too  mountainous,"  and  were  "terrified  by  the  prodigious 
number  of  serpents  which  covered  its  soil."  Landing 
on  June  25,  1635,  Olive  and  Duplessis  left  the  island 
after  a  few  hours'  exploration,  or,  rather,  observation, 
and  made  sail  for  Guadeloupe, — according  to  the  quaint 
and  most  veracious  history  of  Pere  Dutertre,  of  the  Or- 
der of  Friars-Preachers. 

A  single  glance  at  the  topographical  map  of  Marti- 
nique would  suffice  to  confirm  the  father's  assertion  that 
the  country  was  found  to  be  trop  hache  et  trop  montueux: 
more  than  two-thirds  of  it  is  peak  and  mountain ; — even 
to-day  only  42,445  of  its  supposed  98,782  hectares  have 
been  cultivated;  and  on  page  426  of  the  last  "Annu- 
aire"  (1887)  I  find  the  statement  that  in  the  interior 
there  are  extensive  Government  lands  of  which  the  area 
is  "not  exactly  known."  Yet  mountainous  as  a  country 
must  be  which — although  scarcely  forty-nine  miles  long 
and  twenty  miles  in  average  breadth  —  remains  partly 
unfamiliar  to  its  own  inhabitants  after  nearly  three  cen- 
turies of  civilization  (there  are  not  half  a  dozen  Creoles 
who  have  travelled  all  over  it),  only  two  elevations  in 
Martinique  bear  the  name  montagne.  These  are  La  Mon- 
tagne  Pelee,  in  the  north,  and  La  Montagne  du  Vauclin, 
in  the  south,  The  term  morne}  used  throughout  the 


La  Pelee.  255 

French  West  Indian  colonies  to  designate  certain  alti- 
tudes of  volcanic  origin,  a  term  rather  unsatisfactorily 
translated  in  certain  dictionaries  as  "  a  small  mountain," 
is  justly  applied  to  the  majority  of  Martinique  hills,  and 
unjustly  sometimes  even  to  its  mightiest  elevation, — 
called  Morne  Pele,  or  Montagne  Pelee,  or  simply  "  La 
Montagne,"  according,  perhaps,  to  the  varying  degree  of 
respect  it  inspires  in  different  minds.  But  even  in  the 
popular  nomenclature  one  finds  the  orography  of  Mar- 
tinique, as  well  as  of  other  West  Indian  islands,  regu- 
larly classified  \*y  pitons,  mornes,  and  monts  or  montagnes. 
Mornes  usually  have  those  beautiful  and  curious  forms 
which  bespeak  volcanic  origin  even  to  the  unscientific 
observer :  they  are  most  often  pyramidal  or  conoid  up 
to  a  certain  height ;  but  have  summits  either  rounded  or 
truncated  ; — their  sides,  green  with  the  richest  vegeta- 
tion, rise  from  valley-levels  and  coast-lines  with  remark- 
able abruptness,  and  are  apt  to  be  curiously  ribbed  or 
wrinkled.  The  pitons,  far  fewer  in  number,  are  much 
more  fantastic  in  form  ; — volcanic  cones,  or  volcanic  up- 
heavals of  splintered  strata  almost  at  right  angles, — 
sometimes  sharp  of  line  as  spires,  and  mostly  too  steep 
for  habitation.  They  are  occasionally  mammiform,  and 
so  symmetrical  that  one  might  imagine  them  artificial 
creations, — particularly  when  they  occur  in  pairs.  Only 
a  very  important  mass  is  dignified  by  the  name  montagne  : 
there  are,  as  I  have  already  observed,  but  two  thus  called 
in  all  Martinique, — Pelee,  the  head  and  summit  of  the 
island  ;  and  La  Montagne  du  Vauclin,  in  the  south-east. 
Vauclin  is  inferior  in  height  and  bulk  to  several  mornes 
and  pitons  of  the  north  and  north-west, — and  owes  its 
distinction  probably  to  its  position  as  centre  of  a  system 
of  ranges :  but  in  altitude  and  mass  and  majesty,  Pelee 
far  outranks  everything  in  the  island,  and  well  deserves 
its  special  appellation,  "La  Montagne." 
No  description  could  give  the  reader  a  just  idea  of  what 


256  Martinique  Sketches. 

Martinique  is,  configuratively,  so  well  as  the  simple  state- 
ment that,  although  less  than  fifty  miles  in  extreme  length, 
and  less  than  twenty  in  average  breadth,  there  are  upwards 
Qifour  hundred  mountains  in  this  little  island,  or  of  what 
at  least  might  be  termed  mountains  elsewhere.  These 
again  are  divided  and  interpeaked,  and  bear  hillocks  on 
their  slopes; — and  the  lowest  hillock  in  Martinique  is 
fifty  metres  high.  Some  of  the  peaks  are  said  to  be  to- 
tally inaccessible :  many  mornes  are  so  on  one  or  two  or 
even  three  sides.  Ninety-one  only  of  the  principal  mount- 
ains have  been  named;  and  among  these  several  bear 
similar  appellations  :  for  example,  there  are  two  Mornes- 
Rouges,  one  in  the  north  and  one  in  the  south  •  and  there 
are  four  or  five  Gros-Mornes.  All  the  elevations  belong 
to  six  great  groups,  clustering  about  or  radiating  from 
six  ancient  volcanic  centres, — i.  La  Pelee;  2.  Pitons  du 
Carbet ;  3.  Roches  Carrees  ;*  4.  Vauclin ;  5.  Marin ;  6. 
Morne  de  la  Plaine.  Forty-two  distinct  mountain-masses 
belong  to  the  Carbet  system  alone, — that  of  Pelee  in- 
cluding but  thirteen ;  and  the  whole  Carbet  area  has  a 
circumference  of  120,000  metres, — much  more  consider- 
able than  that  of  Pelee.  But  its  centre  is  not  one  enor- 
mous pyramidal  mass  like  that  of  "  La  Montagne  "  :  it  is 
marked  only  by  a  group  of  five  remarkable  porphyritic 
cones, — the  Pitons  of  Carbet ; — while  Pelee,  dominating 
everything,  and  filling  the  north,  presents  an  aspect  and 
occupies  an  area  scarcely  inferior  to  those  of  ^tna, 
— Sometimes,  while  looking  at  La  Pelee,  I  have  won- 

*  Also  called  La  Barre  de  risle, — a  long  high  mountain-wall  in- 
terlinking the  northern  and  southern  system  of  ranges, — and  only 
two  metres  broad  at  the  summit.  The  "  Roches  -  Carrees  "  display 
a  geological  formation  unlike  anything  discovered  in  the  rest  of  the 
Antillesian  system,  excepting  in  Grenada, — columnar  or  prismatic 
basalts.  ...  In  the  plains  of  Marin  curious  petrifactions  exist ; — I 
saw  a  honey-comb  so  perfect  that  the  eye  alone  could  scarcely  divine 
the  transformation. 


La  Pette.  257 

dered  if  the  enterprise  of  the  great  Japanese  painter  who 
made  the  Hundred  Views  of  Fusiyama  could  not  be  imi- 
tated by  some  Creole  artist  equally  proud  of  his  native 
hills,  andfearless  of  the  heat  of  the  plains  or  the  snakes  of 
the  slopes.  A  hundred  views  of  Pelee  might  certainly  be 
made  :  for  the  enormous  mass  is  omnipresent  to  dwell- 
ers in  the  northern  part  of  the  island,  and  can  be  seen 
from  the  heights  of  the  most  southern  mornes.  It  is  vis- 
ible from  almost  any  part  of  St.  Pierre,  —  which  nestles 
in  a  fold  of  its  rocky  skirts.  It  overlooks  all  the  island 
ranges,  and  overtops  the  mighty  Pitons  of  Carbet  by  a 
thousand  feet ; — you  can  only  lose  sight  of  it  by  entering 
gorges,  or  journeying  into  the  valleys  of  the  south.  .  .  . 
But  the  peaked  character  of  the  whole  country,  and  the 
hot  moist  climate,  oppose  any  artistic  undertaking  of  the 
sort  suggested  :  even  photographers  never  dream  of  tak- 
ing views  in  the  further  interior,  nor  on  the  east  coast. 
Travel,  moreover,  is  no  less  costly  than  difficult :  there 
are  no  inns  or  places  of  rest  for  tourists  ;  there  are,  al- 
most daily,  sudden  and  violent  rains,  which  are  much 
dreaded  (since  a  thorough  wetting,  with  the  pores  all  dis- 
tended by  heat,  may  produce  pleurisy) ;  and  there  are 
serpents  !  The  artist  willing  to  devote  a  few  weeks  of 
travel  and  study  to  Pelee,  in  spite  of  these  annoyances  and 
risks,  has  not  yet  made  his  appearance  in  Martinique.* 

*  Thibault  de  Chanvallon,  writing  of  Martinique  in  1751,  de- 
clared : — "All  possible  hinderances  to  study  are  encountered  here 
(tout  s  oppose  a  re"tude)\  if  the  Americans  [creoles]  do  not  devote  them- 
selves to  research,  the  fact  must  not  be  attributed  solely  to  indiffer- 
ence or  indolence.  On  the  one  hand,  the  overpowering  and  continual 
heat, — the  perpetual  succession  of  mornes  and  acclivities, — the  dif- 
ficulty of  entering  forests  rendered  almost  inaccessible  by  the  lianas 
interwoven  across  all  openings,  and  the  prickly  plants  which  oppose 
a  barrier  to  the  naturalist, — the  continual  anxiety  and  fear  inspired 
by  serpents  also  ; — on  the  other  hand,  the  disheartening  necessity  of 
having  to  work  alone,  and  the  discouragement  of  being  unable  to 
communicate  one's  ideas  or  discoveries  to  persons  having  similar 


258  Martinique  Sketches. 

Huge  as  the  mountain  looks  from  St.  Pierre,  the  eye 
under-estimates  its  bulk ;  and  when  you  climb  the  mornes 
about  the  town,  Labelle,  d'Orange,  or  the  much  grander 
Parnasse,  you  are  surprised  to  find  how  much  vaster  Pe- 
lee appears  from  these  summits.  Volcanic  hills  often 
seem  higher,  by  reason  of  their  steepness,  than  they  real- 
ly are  ;  but  Pelee  deludes  in  another  manner.  From  sur- 
rounding valleys  it  appears  lower,  and  from  adjacent 
mornes  higher  than  it  really  is :  the  illusion  in  the  former 
case  being  due  to  the  singular  slope  of  its  contours,  and 
the  remarkable  breadth  of  its  base,  occupying  nearly  all 
the  northern  end  of  the  island ;  in  the  latter,  to  miscon- 
ception of  the  comparative  height  of  the  eminence  you 
have  reached,  which  deceives  by  the  precipitous  pitch  of 
its  sides.  Pelee  is  not  very  remarkable  in  point  of  alti- 
tude, however :  its  height  was  estimated  by  Moreau  de 
Jonnes  at  1600  metres;  and  by  others  at  between  4400 
and  4500  feet.  The  sum  of  the  various  imperfect  esti- 
mates made  justify  the  opinion  of  Dr.  Cornilliac  that  the 
extreme  summit  is  over  5000  feet  above  the  sea — perhaps 
5200.*  The  clouds  of  the  summit  afford  no  indication  to 
eyes  accustomed  to  mountain  scenery  in  northern  coun- 
tries ;  for  in  these  hot  moist  latitudes  clouds  hang  very 
low,  even  in  fair  weather.  But  in  bulk  Pelee  is  grandi- 
ose: it  spurs  out  across  the  island  from  the  Caribbean 
to  the  Atlantic :  the  great  chains  of  mornes  about  it  are 


tastes.  And  finally,  it  must  be  remembered  that  these  discourage- 
ments and  dangers  are  never  mitigated  by  the  least  hope  of  personal 
consideration,  or  by  the  pleasure  of  emulation, — since  such  study  is 
necessarily  unaccompanied  either  by  the  one  or  the  other  in  a  country 
where  nobody  undertakes  it." — (Voyage  a  la  Martinique.')  .  .  .  The 
conditions  have  scarcely  changed  since  De  Chanvallon's  day,  despite 
the  creation  of  Government  roads,  and  the  thinning  of  the  high 
woods. 

*  Humboldt  believed  the  height  to  be  not  less   than  §00 
(i  toise— 6  ft,  4.73  inches),  or  about  5115  feet, 


La  Pelee.  259 

merely  counter-forts ;  the  Piton  Pierreux  and  the  Piton 
Pain-a-Sucre  {Sugar-loaf  Peak],  and  other  elevations  vary- 
ing from  800  to  2 100  feet,  are  its  volcanic  children.  Near- 
ly thirty  rivers  have  their  birth  in  its  flanks, —besides 
many  thermal  springs,  variously  mineralized.  As  the  cul- 
minant point  of  the  island,  Pelee  is  also  the  ruler  of  its 
meteorologic  life,  —  cloud -herder,  lightning -forger,  and 
rain-maker.  During  clear  weather  you  can  see  it  draw- 
ing to  itself  all  the  white  vapors  of  the  land, — robbing 
lesser  eminences  of  their  shoulder-wraps  and  head-cover- 
ings;— though  the  Pitons  of  Carbet  (3700  feet)  usually 
manage  to  retain  about  their  middle  a  cloud-clout, — a 
lantchb.  You  will  also  see  that  the  clouds  run  in  a  circle 
about  Pelee, — gathering  bulk  as  they  turn  by  continual 
accessions  from  other  points.  If  the  crater  be  totally 
bare  in  the  morning,  and  shows  the  broken  edges  very 
sharply  against  the  blue,  it  is  a  sign  of  foul  rather  than 
of  fair  weather  to  come.* 

Even  in  bulk,  perhaps,  Pelee  might  not  impress  those 
who  know  the  stupendous  scenery  of  the  American  ranges; 
but  none  could  deny  it  special  attractions  appealing  to 
the  senses  of  form  and  color.  There  is  an  imposing  fan- 
tasticality in  its  configuration  worth  months  of  artistic 
study  :  one  does  not  easily  tire  of  watching  its  slopes  un- 
dulating against  the  north  sky, — and  the  strange  jagging 
of  its  ridges,  —  and  the  succession  of  its  terraces  crum- 


*  There  used  to  be  a  strange  popular  belief  that  however  heavily 
veiled  by  clouds  the  mountain  might  be  pnor  to  an  earthquake,  these 
would  always  vanish  with  the  first  shock.  But  Thibault  de  Chan- 
vallon  took  pains  to  examine  into  the  truth  of  this  alleged  phenom- 
enon ;  and  found  that  during  a  number  of  earthquake  shocks  the 
clouds  remained  over  the  crater  precisely  as  usual.  .  .  .  There  was 
more  foundation,  however,  for  another  popular  belief,  which  still 
exists, — that  the  absolute  purity  of  the  atmosphere  about  Pelee,  and 
the  perfect  exposure  of  its  summit  for  any  considerable  time,  might 
be  regarded  as  an  omen  of  hurricane. 


260  Martinique  Sketches. 

bling  down  to  other  terraces,  which  again  break  into  ra- 
vines here  and  there  bridged  by  enormous  buttresses  of 
basalt :  an  extravaganza  of  lava-shapes  overpitching  and 
cascading  into  sea  and  plain.  All  this  is  verdant  wher- 
ever surfaces  catch  the  sun :  you  can  divine  what  the 
frame  is  only  by  examining  the  dark  and  ponderous  rocks 
of  the  torrents.  And  the  hundred  tints  of  this  verdure 
do  not  form  the  only  colorific  charms  of  the  landscape. 
Lovely  as  the  long  upreaching  slopes  of  cane  are, — and 
the  loftier  bands  of  forest-growths,  so  far  off  that  they 
look  like  belts  of  moss,  —  and  the  more  tender-colored 
masses  above,  wrinkling  and  folding  together  up  to  the 
frost-white  clouds  of  the  summit, — you  will  be  still  more 
delighted  by  the  shadow- colors,  —  opulent,  diaphanous. 
The  umbrages  lining  the  wrinkles,  collecting  in  the  hol- 
lows, slanting  from  sudden  projections,  may  become  be- 
fore your  eyes  almost  as  unreally  beautiful  as  the  land- 
scape colors  of  a  Japanese  fan ; — they  shift  most  gener- 
ally during  the  day  from  indigo-blue  through  violets  and 
paler  blues  to  final  lilacs  and  purples ;  and  even  the 
shadows  of  passing  clouds  have  a  faint  blue  tinge  when 
they  fall  on  Pelee. 

...  Is  the  great  volcano  dead  ?  .  .  .  Nobody  knows. 
Less  than  forty  years  ago  it  rained  ashes  over  all'  the 
roofs  of  St.  Pierre ; — within  twenty  years  it  has  uttered 
mutterings.  For  the  moment,  it  appears  to  sleep ;  and 
the  clouds  have  dripped  into  the  cup  of  its  highest  crater 
till  it  has  become  a  lake,  several  hundred  yards  in  cir- 
cumference. The  crater  occupied  by  this  lake — called 
L'Etang,  or  "The  Pool" — has  never  been  active  within 
human  memory.  There  are  others, — difficult  and  dan- 
gerous to  visit  because  opening  on  the  side  of  a  tremen- 
dous gorge  ;  and  it  was  one  of  these,  no  doubt,  which  has 
always  been  called  La  Souffriere,  that  rained  ashes  over 
the  city  in  1851. 

The  explosion  was  almost  concomitant  with  the  last 


La  Petie.  261 

of  a  series  of  earthquake  shocks,  which  began  in  the 
middle  of  May  and  ended  in  the  first  week  of  August, — 
all  much  more  severe  in  Guadeloupe  than  in  Martinique. 
In  the  village  Au  Precheur,  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  west- 
ern slope  of  Pelee,  the  people  had  been  for  some  time 
complaining  of  an  oppressive  stench  of  sulphur, — or,  as 
chemists  declared  it,  sulphuretted  hydrogen, — when,  on 
the  4th  of  August,  much  trepidation  was  caused  by  a 
long  and  appalling  noise  from  the  mountain, — a  noise 
compared  by  planters  on  the  neighboring  slopes  to  the 
hollow  roaring  made  by  a  packet  blowing  off  steam,  but 
infinitely  louder.  These  sounds  continued  through  in- 
tervals until  the  following  night,  sometimes  deepening 
into  a  rumble  like  thunder.  The  mountain  guides  de- 
clared: "  Cest  la  Souffriere  qui  bout!"  (the  Souffriere  is 
boiling) ;  and  a  panic  seized  the  negroes  of  the  neighbor- 
ing plantations.  At  1 1  P.M.  the  noise  was  terrible  enough 
to  fill  all  St.  Pierre  with  alarm ;  and  on  the  morning  of 
the  6th  the  city  presented  an  unwonted  aspect,  com- 
pared by  Creoles  who  had  lived  abroad  to  the  effect  of  a 
great  hoar-frost.  All  the  roofs,  trees,  balconies,  awnings, 
pavements,  were  covered  with  a  white  layer  of  ashes. 
The  same  shower  blanched  the  roofs  of  Morne  Rouge, 
and  all  the  villages  about  the  chief  city, — Carbet,  Fond- 
Corre,  and  Au  Precheur ;  also  whitening  the  neighbor- 
ing country :  the  mountain  was  sending  up  columns  of 
smoke  or  vapor;  and  it  was  noticed  that  the  Riviere 
Blanche,  usually  of  a  glaucous  color,  ran  black  into  the 
sea  like  an  outpouring  of  ink,  staining  its  azure  for  a 
mile.  A  committee  appointed  to  make  an  investigation, 
and  prepare  an  official  report,  found  that  a  number  of 
rents  had  either  been  newly  formed,  or  suddenly  become 
active,  in  the  flank  of  the  mountain:  these  were  all  situ- 
ated in  the  immense  gorge  sloping  westward  from  that 
point  now  known  as  the  Morne  de  la  Croix.  Several 
were  visited  with  much  difficulty,  —  members  of  the 


262  Martinique  Sketches. 

commission  being  obliged  to  lower  themselves  down  a 
succession  of  precipices  with  cords  of  lianas ;  and  it 
is  noteworthy  that  their  researches  were  prosecuted  in 
spite  of  the  momentary  panic  created  by  another  out- 
burst. It  was  satisfactorily  ascertained  that  the  main 
force  of  the  explosion  had  been  exerted  within  a  peri- 
meter of  about  one  thousand  yards  ;  that  various  hot 
springs  had  suddenly  gushed  out, — the  temperature  of 
the  least  warm  being  about  37°  Reaumur  (116°  F.) ; — 
that  there  was  no  change  in  the  configuration  of  the 
mountain ; — and  that  the  terrific  sounds  had  been  pro- 
duced only  by  the  violent  outrush  of  vapor  and  ashes 
from  some  of  the  rents.  In  hope  of  allaying  the  general 
alarm,  a  Creole  priest  climbed  the  summit  of  the  volcano, 
and  there  planted  the  great  cross  which  gives  the  height 
its  name  and  still  remains  to  commemorate  the  event. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  emigration  of  serpents 
from  the  high  woods,  and  from  the  higher  to  the  lower 
plantations, — where  they  were  killed  by  thousands.  For 
a  long  time  Pele'e  continued  to  send  up  an  immense  col- 
umn of  white  vapor ;  but  there  were  no  more  showers  of 
ashes ;  and  the  mountain  gradually  settled  down  to  its 
present  state  of  quiescence. 


II. 

FROM  St.  Pierre,  trips  to  Pelee  can  be  made  by  sev- 
eral routes ; — the  most  popular  is  that  by  way  of  Morne 
Rouge  and  the  Calebasse ;  but  the  summit  can  be  reached 
in  much  less  time  by  making  the  ascent  from  different 
points  along  the  coast-road  to  Au  Precheur, — such  as 
the  Morne  St.  Martin,  or  a  well  -  known  path  further 
north,  passing  near  the  celebrated  hot  springs  (Fontaines 
Chaudes}.  You  drive  towards  Au  Precheur,  and  begin 
the  ascent  on  foot,  through  cane-plantations. . . .  The  road 
by  which  you  follow  the  north-west  coast  round  the  skirts 


La  Pelee.  263 

of  Pelee  is  very  picturesque : — you  cross  the  Roxelane, 
the  Riviere  des  Peres,  the  Riviere  Seche  (whose  bed  is 
now  occupied  only  by  a  motionless  torrent  of  rocks)  ; — 
passing  first  by  the  suburb  of  Fond-Corre,  with  its  cocoa 
groves,  and  broad  beach  of  iron-gray  sand, — a  bathing 
resort ; — then  Pointe  Prince,  and  the  Fond  de  Canon- 
ville,  somnolent  villages  that  occupy  wrinkles  in  the  hem 
of  Pelee's  lava  robe.  The  drive  ultimately  rises  and  low- 
ers over  the  undulations  of  the  cliff,  and  is  well  shad- 
owed along  the  greater  part  of  its  course :  you  will  ad- 
mire many  huge  fromagers,  or  silk-cotton  trees,  various 
heavy  lines  of  tamarinds,  and  groups  of  flamboyants  with 
thick  dark  feathery  foliage,  and  cassia- trees  with  long 
pods  pending  and  blackening  from  every  branch,  and 
hedges  of  campeche,  or  logwood,  and  calabash-trees,  and 
multitudes  of  the  pretty  shrubs  bearing  the  fruit  called 
in  Creole  raisins-bb-lanme,  or  "  sea-side  grapes."  Then 
you  reach  Au  Precheur  :  a  very  antiquated  village,  which 
boasts  a  stone  church  and  a  little  public  square  with  a 
fountain  in  it.  If  you  have  time  to  cross  the  Riviere  du 
Precheur,  a  little  further  on,  you  can  obtain  a  fine  view 
of  the  coast,  which,  rising  suddenly  to  a  grand  altitude, 
sweeps  round  in  a  semicircle  over  the  Village  of  the 
Abysses  (Aux  Abymes], — whose  name  was  doubtless  sug- 
gested by  the  immense  depth  of  the  sea  at  that  point. 
...  It  was  under  the  shadow  of  those  cliffs  that  the  Con- 
federate cruiser  Alabama  once  hid  herself,  as  a  fish  hides 
in  the  shadow  of  a  rock,  and  escaped  from  her  pursuer, 
the  Iroquois.  She  had  long  been  blockaded  in  the  har- 
bor of  St.  Pierre  by  the  Northern  man-of-war, — anxiously 
awaiting  a  chance  to  pounce  upon  her  the  instant  she 
should  leave  French  waters ; — and  various  Yankee  ves- 
sels in  port  were  to  send  up  rocket-signals  should  the 
Alabama  attempt  to  escape  under  cover  of  darkness. 
But  one  night  the  privateer  took  a  Creole  pilot  on  board, 
and  steamed  out  southward,  with  all  her  lights  masked, 

21 


264  Martinique  Sketches. 

and  her  chimneys  so  arranged  that  neither  smoke  nof 
sparks  could  betray  her  to  the  enemy  in  the  offing. 
However,  some  Yankee  vessels  near  enough  to  discern 
her  movements  through  the  darkness  at  once  shot  rock- 
ets south  ;  and  the  Iroquois  gave  chase.  The  Alabama 
hugged  the  high  shore  as  far  as  Carbet,  remaining  quite 
invisible  in  the  shadow  of  it :  then  she  suddenly  turned 
and  recrossed  the  harbor.  Again  Yankee  rockets  be- 
trayed her  manoeuvre  to  the  Iroquois ;  but  she  gained 
Aux  Abymes,  laid  herself  close  to  the  enormous  black 
cliff,  and  there  remained  indistinguishable  ;  the  Iroquois 
steamed  by  north  without  seeing  her.  Once  the  Con- 
federate cruiser  found  her  enemy  well  out  of  sight,  she 
put  her  pilot  ashore  and  escaped  into  the  Dominica 
channel.  The  pilot  was  a  poor  mulatto,  who  thought 
himself  well  paid  with  five  hundred  francs ! 

.  .  .  The  more  popular  route  to  Pelee  by  way  of  Morne 
Rouge  is  otherwise  interesting.  .  .  .  Anybody  not  too 
much  afraid  of  the  tropic  sun  must  find  it  a  delightful 
experience  to  follow  the  mountain  roads  leading  to  the 
interior  from  the  city,  as  all  the  mornes  traversed  by 
them  command  landscapes  of  extraordinary  beauty.  Ac- 
cording to  the  zigzags  of  the  way,  the  scenery  shifts  pan- 
oramically.  At  one  moment  you  are  looking  down  into 
valleys  a  thousand  feet  below,  at  another,  over  luminous 
leagues  of  meadow  or  cane-field,  you  see  some  far  crowd- 
ing of  cones  and  cratered  shapes — sharp  as  the  teeth 
of  a  saw,  and  blue  as  sapphire, — with  further  eminences 
ranging  away  through  pearline  color  to  high-peaked  re- 
motenesses of  vapory  gold.  As  you  follow  the  windings 
of  such  a  way  as  the  road  of  the  Morne  Labelle,  or  the 
Morne  d'Orange,  the  city  disappears  and  reappears  many 
times, — always  diminishing,  till  at  last  it  looks  no  bigger 
than  a  chess-board.  Simultaneously  distant  mountain 
shapes  appear  to  unfold  and  lengthen  ; — and  always,  al- 
ways the  sea  rises  with  your  rising.  Viewed  at  first  from 


La  Pelee.  265 

the  bulwark  (boulevard}  commanding  the  roofs  of  the 
town,  its  horizon -line  seemed  straight  and  keen  as  a 
knife-edge  ; — but  as  you  mount  higher,  it  elongates,  be- 
gins to  curve;  and  gradually  the  whole  azure  expanse  of 
water  broadens  out  roundly  like  a  disk.  From  certain 
very  lofty  summits  further  inland  you  behold  the  im- 
mense blue  circle  touching  the  sky  all  round  you, — ex- 
cept where  a  still  greater  altitude,  like  that  of  Pelee  or 
the  Pitons,  breaks  the  ring ;  and  this  high  vision  of  the 
sea  has  a  phantasmal  effect  hard  to  describe,  and  due  to 
vapory  conditions  of  the  atmosphere.  There  are  bright 
cloudless  days  when,  even  as  seen  from  the  city,  the 
ocean-verge  has  a  spectral  vagueness ;  but  on  any  day, 
in  any  season,  that  you  ascend  to  a  point  dominating  the 
sea  by  a  thousand  feet,  the  rim  of  the  visible  world  takes 
a  ghostliness  that  startles, — because  the  prodigious  light 
gives  to  all  near  shapes  such  intense  sharpness  of  out- 
line and  vividness  of  color. 

Yet  wonderful  as  are  the  perspective  beauties  of  those 
mountain  routes  from  which  one  can  keep  St.  Pierre  in 
view,  the  road  to  Morne  Rouge  surpasses  them,  not- 
withstanding that  it  almost  immediately  leaves  the  city 
behind,  and  out  of  sight.  Excepting  only  La  Trace, — 
the  long  route  winding  over  mountain  ridges  and  be- 
tween primitive  forests  south  to  Fort-de-France, — there 
is  probably  no  section  of  national  highway  in  the  island 
more  remarkable  than  the  Morne  Rouge  road.  Leaving 
the  Grande  Rue  by  the  public  conveyance,  you  drive 
out  through  the  Savane  du  Fort,  with  its  immense  mango 
and  tamarind  trees,  skirting  the  Roxelane.  Then  reach- 
ing the  boulevard,  you  pass  high  Morne  Labelle, — and 
the.n  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  on  the  right,  where  white- 
stemmed  palms  are  lifting  their  heads  two  hundred 
feet, — and  beautiful  Parnasse,  heavily  timbered  to  the 
top; — while  on  your  left  the  valley  of  the  Roxelane  shal- 
lows up,  and  Pelee  shows  less  and  less  of  its  tremen- 


266  Martinique  Sketches. 

dous  base.  Then  you  pass  through  the  sleepy,  palmy, 
pretty  Village  of  the  Three  Bridges  (Trois  Pants),— where 
a  Fahrenheit  thermometer  shows  already  three  degrees 
of  temperature  lower  than  at  St.  Pierre  ; — and  the  na- 
tional road,  making  a  sharp  turn  to  the  right,  becomes 
all  at  once  very  steep — so  steep  that  the  horses  can 
mount  only  at  a  walk.  Around  and  between  the  wooded 
hills  it  ascends  by  zigzags, — occasionally  overlooking 
the  sea,  —  sometimes  following  the  verges  of  ravines. 
Now  and  then  you  catch  glimpses  of  the  road  over  which 
you  passed  half  an  hour  before  undulating  far  below, 
looking  narrow  as  a  tape-line, — and  of  the  gorge  of  the 
Roxelane, — and  of  Pelee,  always  higher,  now  thrusting 
out  long  spurs  of  green  and  purple  land  into  the  sea. 
You  drive  under  cool  shadowing  of  mountain  woods — 
under  waving  bamboos  like  enormous  ostrich  feathers 
dyed  green, — and  exquisite  tree-ferns  thirty  to  forty 
feet  high,-1- and  imposing  ceibas,  with  strangely  but- 
tressed trunks, — and  all  sorts  of  broad -leaved  forms: 
cachibous,  balisiers,  bananiers.  .  .  .  Then  you  reach  a 
plateau  covered  with  cane,  whose  yellow  expanse  is 
bounded  on  the  right  by  a  demilune  of  hills  sharply  an- 
gled as  crystals  ; — on  the  left  it  dips  seaward ;  and  be- 
fore you  Pelee's  head  towers  over  the  shoulders  of  inter- 
vening mornes.  A  strong  cool  wind  is  blowing ;  and 
the  horses  can  trot  a  while.  Twenty  minutes,  and  the 
road,  leaving  the  plateau,  becomes  steep  again  ; — you 
are  approaching  the  volcano  over  the  ridge  of  a  colossal 
spur.  The  way  turns  in  a  semicircle, — zigzags, — once 
more  touches  the  edge  of  a  valley, — where  the  clear  fall 
might  be  nearly  fifteen  hundred  feet.  But  narrowing 
more  and  more,  the  valley  becomes  an  ascending  gorge ; 
and  across  its  chasm,  upon  the  brow  of  the  opposite  cliff, 
you  catch  sight  of  houses  and  a  spire  seemingly  perched 
on  the  verge,  like  so  many  birds'-nests,— the  village  of 
Morne  Rouge.  It  is  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea ; 


La  Pelee.  267 

and  Pelee,  although  looming  high  over  it,  looks  a  trifle 
less  lofty  now.  . 

One's  first  impression  of  Morne  Rouge  is  that  of  a 
single  straggling  street  of  gray- painted  cottages  and 
shops  (or  rather  booths),  dominated  by  a  plain  church, 
with  four  pursy-bodied  palmistes  facing  the  main  porch. 
Nevertheless,  Morne  Rouge  is  not  a  small  place,  consid- 
ering its  situation  ; — there  are  nearly  five  thousand  in- 
habitants ;  but  in  order  to  find  out  where  they  live,  you 
must  leave  the  public  road,  which  is  on  a  ridge,  and 
explore  the  high-hedged  lanes  leading  down  from  it  on 
either  side.  Then  you  will  find  a  veritable  city  of  little 
wooden  cottages, — each  screened  about  with  banana- 
trees,  Indian-reeds,  and  pommiers-roses.  You  will  also 
see  a  number  of  handsome  private  residences — country- 
houses  of  wealthy  merchants ;  and  you  will  find  that  the 
church,  though  uninteresting  exteriorly,  is  rich  and  im- 
pressive within  :  it  is  a  famous  shrine,  where  miracles 
are  alleged  to  have  been  wrought.  Immense  processions 
periodically  wend  their  way  to  it  from  St.  Pierre, — start- 
ing at  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  so  as  to  ar- 
rive before  the  sun  is  well  up.  .  .  .  But  there  are  no 
woods  here,  —  only  fields.  An  odd  tone  is  given  to 
the  lanes  by  a  local  custom  of  planting  hedges  of  what 
are  termed  roseaux  &  Inde,  having  a  dark -red  foliage; 
and  there  is  a  visible  fondness  for  ornamental  plants 
with  crimson  leaves.  Otherwise  the  mountain  summit 
is  somewhat  bare ;  trees  have  a  scrubby  aspect.  You 
must  have  noticed  while  ascending,  that  the  palmistes 
became  smaller  as  they  were  situated  higher :  at  Morne 
Rouge  they  are  dwarfed, — having  a  short  stature,  and 
very  thick  trunks. 

In  spite  of  the  fine  views  of  the  sea,  the  mountain- 
heights,  and  the  valley-reaches,  obtainable  from  Morne 
Rouge,  the  place  has  a  somewhat  bleak  look.  Perhaps 
this  is  largely  owing  to  the  universal  slate-gray  tint  of 


268  Martinique  Sketches. 

the  buildings,  —  very  melancholy  by  comparison  with 
the  apricot  and  banana  yellows  tinting  the  walls  of  St. 
Pierre.  But  this  cheerless  gray  is  the  only  color  which 
can  resist  the  climate  of  Morne  Rouge,  where  people  are 
literally  dwelling  in  the  clouds.  Rolling  down  like  white 
smoke  from  Pelee,  these  often  create  a  dismal  fog  ;  and 
Morne  Rouge  is  certainly  one  of  the  rainiest  places  in 
the  world.  When  it  is  dry  everywhere  else,  it  rains  at 
Morne  Rouge.  It  rains  at  least  three  hundred  and  sixty 
days  and  three  hundred  and  sixty  nights  of  the  year. 
It  rains  almost  invariably  once  in  every  twenty -four 
hours ;  but  oftener  five  or  six  times.  The  dampness  is 
phenomenal.  All  mirrors  become  patchy;  linen  moulds 
in  one  day ;  leather  turns  white ;  woollen  goods  feel  as 
if  saturated  with  moisture;  new  brass  becomes  green; 
steel  crumbles  into  red  powder :  wood-work  rots  with 
astonishing  rapidity;  salt  is  quickly  transformed  into 
brine;  and  matches,  unless  kept  in  a  very  warm  place, 
refuse  to  light.  Everything  moulders  and  peels  and  de- 
composes ;  even  the  frescos  of  the  church-interior  lump 
out  in  immense  blisters ;  and  a  microscopic  vegetation, 
green  or  brown,  attacks  all  exposed  surfaces  of  timber  or 
stone.  At  night  it  is  often  really  cold ; — and  it  is  hard 
to  understand  how,  with  all  this  dampness  and  coolness 
and  mouldiness,  Morne  Rouge  can  be  a  healthy  place. 
But  it  is  so,  beyond  any  question :  it  is  the  great  Mar- 
tinique resort  for  invalids  ;  strangers  debilitated  by  the 
climate  of  Trinidad  or  Cayenne  come  to  it  for  recupera- 
tion. 

Leaving  the  village  by  the  still  uprising  road,  you  will 
be  surprised,  after  a  walk  of  twenty  minutes  northward, 
by  a  magnificent  view, — the  vast  valley  of  the  Champ- 
Flore,  watered  by  many  torrents,  and  bounded  south  and 
west  by  double,  triple,  and  quadruple  surging  of  mount- 
ains,—  mountains  broken,  peaked,  tormented -looking, 
and  tinted  (irisees,  as  the  Creoles  say)  with  all  those  gem- 


La  Pelee.  269 

tones  distance  gives  in  a  West  Indian  atmosphere.  Par- 
ticularly impressive  is  the  beauty  of  one  purple  cone  in 
the  midst  of  this  many-colored  chain :  the  Piton  Gele. 
All  the  valley-expanse  of  rich  land  is  checkered  with  al- 
ternations of  meadow  and  cane  and  cacao, — except  north- 
westwardly, where  woods  billow  out  of  sight  beyond  a 
curve.  Facing  this  landscape,  on  your  left,  are  mornes 
of  various  heights, —  among  which  you  will  notice  La 
Calebasse,  overtopping  everything  but  Pelee  shadowing 
behind  it ; — and  a  grass-grown  road  leads  up  westward 
from  the  national  highway  towards  the  volcano.  This  is 
the  Calebasse  route  to  Pelee. 


III. 

ONE  must  be  very  sure  of  the  weather  before  under- 
taking the  ascent  of  Pelee ;  for  if  one  merely  selects  some 
particular  leisure  day  in  advance,  one's  chances  of  seeing 
anything  from  the  summit  are  considerably  less  than  an 
astronomer's  chances  of  being  able  to  make  a  satisfac- 
tory observation  of  the  next  transit  of  Venus.  More- 
over, if  the  heights  remain  even  partly  clouded,  it  may 
not  be  safe  to  ascend  the  Morne  de  la  Croix, — a  cone- 
point  above  the  crater  itself,  and  ordinarily  invisible  from 
below.  And  a  cloudless  afternoon  can  never  be  predict- 
ed from  the  aspect  of  deceitful  Pelee  :  when  the  crater 
edges  are  quite  clearly  cut  against  the  sky  at  dawn,  you 
may  be  tolerably  certain  there  will  be  bad  weather  during 
the  day;  and  when  they  are  all  bare  at  sundown,  you 
have  no  good  reason  to  believe  they  will  not  be  hidden 
next  morning.  Hundreds  of  tourists,  deluded  by  such 
appearances,  have  made  the  weary  trip  in  vain, — found 
themselves  obliged  to  return  without  having  seen  any- 
thing but  a  thick  white  cold  fog.  The  sky  may  remain 
perfectly  blue  for  weeks  in  every  other  direction,  and 
Pelee's  head  remain  always  hidden.  In  order  to  make 


270  Martinique  Sketches. 

a  successful  ascent,  one  must  not  wait  for  a  period  of 
dry  weather, —  one  might  thus  wait  for  years!  What 
one  must  look  for  is  a  certain  periodicity  in  the  diurnal 
rains, — a  regular  alternation  of  sun  and  cloud ;  such  as 
characterizes  a  certain  portion  of  the  hivernage,  or  rainy 
summer  season,  when  mornings  and  evenings  are  per- 
fectly limpid,  with  very  heavy  sudden  rains  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day.  It  is  of  no  use  to  rely  on  the  prospect 
of  a  dry  spell.  There  is  no  really  dry  weather,  notwith- 
standing there  recurs  —  in  books  —  a  Saison  de.  la  Seche- 
resse.  In  fact,  there  are  no  distinctly  marked  seasons  in 
Martinique : — a  little  less  heat  and  rain  from  October  to 
July,  a  little  more  rain  and  heat  from  July  to  October : 
that  is  about  all  the  notable  difference  !  Perhaps  the 
official  notification  by  cannon-shot  that  the  hivernage, 
the  season  of  heavy  rains  and  hurricanes,  begins  on  July 
1 5th,  is  no  more  trustworthy  than  the  contradictory  dec- 
larations of  Martinique  authors  who  have  attempted  to 
define  the  vague  and  illusive  limits  of  the  tropic  seasons. 
Still,  the  Government  report  on  the  subject  is  more  sat- 
isfactory than  any:  according  to  the  "Annuaire,"  there 
are  these  seasons  : — 

1.  Saison  frauhe.      December   to    March.      Rainfall, 
about  475  millimetres. 

2.  Saison  chaude  et  seche.     April   to  July.      Rainfall, 
about  140  millimetres. 

3.  Saison    chaude   et  pluvieuse.      July    to    November, 
Rainfall  average,  1121  millimetres. 

Other  authorities  divide  the  saison  chaude  et  seche  into 
two  periods,  of  which  the  latter,  beginning  about  May,  is 
called  the  Renouveau  ;  and  it  is  at  least  true  that  at  the 
time  indicated  there  is  a  great  burst  of  vegetal  luxuri- 
ance. But  there  is  always  rain,  there  are  almost  always 
clouds,  there  is  no  possibility  of  marking  and  dating  the 
beginnings  and  the  endings  of  weather  in  this  country 
where  the  barometer  is  almost  useless,  and  the  thermome- 


La  Pelee.  271 

ter  mounts  in  the  sun  to  twice  the  figure  it  reaches  in  the 
shade.  Long  and  patient  observation  has,  however,  es- 
tablished the  fact  that  during  the  hivernage,  if  the  heavy 
showers  have  a  certain  fixed  periodicity, — falling  at  mid- 
day or  in  the  heated  part  of  the  afternoon, — Pelee  is  like- 
ly to  be  clear  early  in  the  morning ;  and  by  starting  be- 
fore daylight  one  can  then  have  good  chances  of  a  fine 
view  from  the  summit. 

IV. 

AT  five  o'clock  of  a  September  morning,  warm  and 
starry,  I  leave  St.  Pierre  in  a  carriage  with  several 
friends,  to  make  the  ascent  by  the  shortest  route  of 
all, — that  of  the  Morne  St.  Martin,  one  of  Pelee's  west- 
ern counterforts.  We  drive  north  along  the  shore  for 
about  half  an  hour ;  then,  leaving  the  coast  behind,  pur- 
sue a  winding  mountain  road,  leading  to  the  upper  plan- 
tations, between  leagues  of  cane.  The  sky  begins  to 
brighten  as  we  ascend,  and  a  steely  glow  announces  that 
day  has  begun  on  the  other  side  of  the  island.  Miles 
up,  the  crest  of  the  volcano  cuts  sharp  as  a  saw -edge 
against  the  growing  light :  there  is  not  a  cloud  visible. 
Then  the  light  slowly  yellows  behind  the  vast  cone;  and 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  dawns  I  ever  saw  reveals  on 
our  right  an  immense  valley  through  which  three  rivers 
flow.  This  deepens  very  quickly  as  we  drive  ;  the  mornes 
about  St.  Pierre,  beginning  to  catch  the  light,  sink  below 
us  in  distance ;  and  above  them,  southwardly,  an  amaz- 
ing silhouette  begins  to  rise, — all  blue, — a  mountain  wall 
capped  with  cusps  and  cones,  seeming  high  as  Pelee  it- 
self in  the  middle,  but  sinking  down  to  the  sea-level  west- 
ward. There  are  a  number  of  extraordinary  acumina- 
tions ;  but  the  most  impressive  shape  is  the  nearest, — 
a  tremendous  conoidal  mass  crowned  with  a  group  of 
peaks,  of  which  two,  taller  than  the  rest,  tell  their  name 
at  once  by  the  beauty  of  their  forms, — the  Pitons  of  Car- 


272  Martinique  Sketches. 

bet.  They  wear  their  girdles  of  cloud,  though  Pelee  is 
naked  to-day.  All  this  is  blue  :  the  growing  light  only 
deepens  the  color,  does  not  dissipate  it;  —  but  in  the 
nearer  valleys  gleams  of  tender  yellowish  green  begin 
to  appear.  Still  the  sun  has  not  been  able  to  show  him- 
self ; — it  will  take  him  some  time  yet  to  climb  Pelee. 

Reaching  the  last  plantation,  we  draw  rein  in  a  vil- 
lage of  small  wooden  cottages, — the  quarters  of  the  field 
hands, —  and  receive  from  the  proprietor,  a  personal 
friend  of  my  friends,  the  kindest  welcome..  At  his  house 
we  change  clothing  and  prepare  for  the  journey ; — he 
provides  for  our  horses,  and  secures  experienced  guides 
for  us, — two  young  colored  men  belonging  to  the  plan- 
tation. Then  we  begin  the  ascent.  The  guides  walk 
before,  barefoot,  each  carrying  a  cutlass  in  his  hand  and 
a  package  on  his  head — our  provisions,  photographic  in- 
struments, etc. 

The  mountain  is  cultivated  in  spots  up  to  twenty-five 
hundred  feet;  and  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour  after 
leaving  the  planter's  residence  we  still  traverse  fields  of 
cane  and  of  manioc.  The  light  is  now  strong  in  the  val- 
ley ;  but  we  are  in  the  shadow  of  Pelee.  Cultivated 
fields  end  at  last ;  the  ascending  path  is  through  wild 
cane,  wild  guavas,  guinea-grass  run  mad,  and  other  tough 
growths,  some  bearing  pretty  pink  blossoms.  The  forest 
is  before  us.  Startled  by  our  approach,  a  tiny  fer-de- 
lance  glides  out  from  a  bunch  of  dead  wild-cane,  almost 
under  the  bare  feet  of  our  foremost  guide,  who  as  in- 
stantly decapitates  it  with  a  touch  of  his  cutlass.  It  is 
not  quite  fifteen  inches  long,  and  almost  the  color  of  the 
yellowish  leaves  under  which  it  had  been  hiding. .  .  .  The 
conversation  turns  on  snakes  as  we  make  our  first  halt 
at  the  verge  of  the  woods. 

Hundreds  may  be  hiding  around  us ;  but  a  snake  nev- 
er shows  himself  by  daylight  except  under  the  pressure 
of  sudden  alarm.  We  are  not  likely,  in  the  opinion  of 


La  Pelee.  273 

all  present,  to  meet  with  another.  Every  one  in  the 
party,  except  myself,  has  some  curious  experience  to  re- 
late. I  hear  for  the  first  time  about  the  alleged  inability 
of  the  trigonocephalus  to  wound  except  at  a  distance 
from  his  enemy  of  not  less  than  one-third  of  his  length; — 

about  M.  A ,  a  former  director  of  the  Jardin   des 

Plantes,  who  used  to  boldly  thrust  his  arm  into  holes 
where  he  knew  snakes  were,  and  pull  them  out,— 
catching  them  just  behind  the  head  and  wrapping  the 
tail  round  his  arm, —  and  place  them  alive  in  a  cage 

without   ever   getting    bitten  ;— ^  about   M.  B ,  who, 

while  hunting  one  day,  tripped  in  the  coils  of  an  im- 
mense trigonocephalus,  and  ran  so  fast  in  his  fright  that 
the  serpent,  entangled  round  his  leg,  could  not  bite 

him ; — about  M.  C ,  who  could  catch  a  fer-de-lance 

by  the  tail,  and  "crack  it  like  a  whip"  until  the  head 
would  fly  off ; — about  an  old  white  man  living  in  the 
Champ -Flore,  whose  diet  was  snake-meat,  and  who  al- 
ways kept  in  his  ajoupa  "  a  keg  of  salted  serpents  "  (yon 
ka  sepent-sale)  • — about  a  monster  eight  feet  long  which 
killed,  near  Morne  Rouge,  M.  Charles  Fabre's  white  cat, 
but  was  also  killed  by  the  cat  after  she  had  been  caught 
in  the  folds  of  the  reptile  • — about  the  value  of  snakes 
as  protectors  of  the  sugar-cane  and  cocoa-shrub  against 
rats ; — about  an  unsuccessful  effort  made,  during  a  plague 
of  rats  in  Guadeloupe,  to  introduce  the  fer-de-lance 
there  ; — about  the  alleged  power  of  a  monstrous  toad, 
the  crapaud-ladre,  to  cause  the  death  of  the  snake  that 
swallows  it ; — and,  finally,  about  the  total  absence  of  the 
idyllic  and  pastoral  elements  in  Martinique  literature,  as 
due  to  the  presence  of  reptiles  everywhere.  "  Even  the 
flora  and  fauna  of  the  country  remain  to  a  large  extent 
unknown," — adds  the  last  speaker,  an  amiable  old  phy- 
sician of  St.  Pierre, — "because  the  existence  of  the  fer- 
de-lance  renders  all  serious  research  dangerous  in  the 
extreme." 


274  Martinique  Sketches. 

My  own  experiences  do  not  justify  my  taking  part  m 
such  a  conversation  ; — I  never  saw  alive  but  two  very 
small  specimens  of  the  trigonocephalus.  People  who 
have  passed  even  a  considerable  time  in  Martinique 
may  have  never  seen  a  fer-de-lance  except  in  a  jar  of 
alcohol,  or  as  exhibited  by  negro  snake -catchers,  tied 
fast  to  a  bamboo.  But  this  is  only  because  strangers 
rarely  travel  much  in  the  interior  of  the  country,  or  find 
themselves  on  country  roads  after  sundown.  It  is  not 
correct  to  suppose  that  snakes  are  uncommon  even  in 
the  neighborhood  of  St.  Pierre :  they  are  often  killed 
on  the  bulwarks  behind  the  city  and  on  the  verge  of  the 
Savane ;  they  have  been  often  washed  into  the  streets 
by  heavy  rains ;  and  many  washer-women  at  the  Roxe- 
lane  have  been  bitten  by  them.  It  is  considered  very 
dangerous  to  walk  about  the  bulwarks  after  dark ; — for 
the  snakes,  which  travel  only  at  night,  then  descend  from 
the  mornes  towards  the  river.  The  Jardin  des  Plantes 
shelters  great  numbers  of  the  reptiles  ;  and  only  a  few 
days  prior  to  the  writing  of  these  lines  a  colored  laborer 
in  the  garden  was  stricken  and  killed  by  a  fer-de-lance 
measuring  one  metre  and  sixty -seven  centimetres  in 
length.  In  the  interior  much  larger  reptiles  are  some- 
times seen :  I  saw  one  freshly  killed  measuring  six  feet 
five  inches,  and  thick  as  a  man's  leg  in  the  middle. 
There  are  few  planters  in  the  island  who  have  not  some 
of  their  hands  bitten  during  the  cane-cutting  and  cocoa- 
gathering  seasons  ; — the  average  annual  mortality  among 
the  class  of  travailleurs  from  serpent  bite  alone  is  prob- 
ably fifty*, —  always  fine  young  men  or  women  in  the 
prime  of  life.  Even  among  the  wealthy  whites  deaths 
from  this  cause  are  less  rare  than  might  be  supposed  : 
I  know  one  gentleman,  a  rich  citizen  of  St.  Pierre, 

*  "  De  la  piqure  du  serpent  de  la  Martinique,"  par  Auguste 
Charriez,  Medecin  de  la  Marine.  Paris:  Moquet,  1875. 


La  Petee.  2?$ 

who  in  ten  years  lost  three  relatives  by  the  trigonoceph- 
alus, — the  wound  having  in  each  case  been  received  in 
the  neighborhood  of  a  vein.  When  the  vein  has  been 
pierced,  cure  is  impossible. 


V. 

.  .  .  WE  look  back  over  the  upreaching  yellow  fan- 
spread  of  cane -fields,  and  winding  of  tortuous  valleys, 
and  the  sea  expanding  beyond  an  opening  in  the  west. 
It  has  already  broadened  surprisingly,  the  sea, — appears 
to  have  risen  up,  not  as  a  horizontal  plane,  but  like  an 
immeasurable  azure  precipice  :  what  will  it  look  like 
when  we  shall  have  reached  the  top  ?  Far  down  we  can 
distinguish  a  line  of  field-hands — the  whole  atelier,  as  it 
is  called,  of  a  plantation  —  slowly  descending  a  slope, 
hewing  the  canes  as  they  go.  There  is  a  woman  to  ev- 
ery two  men,  a  binder  (amarreuse) :  she  gathers  the  canes 
as  they  are  cut  down,  binds  them  with  their  own  tough 
long  leaves  into  a  sort  of  sheaf,  and  carries  them  away 
on  her  head ; — the  men  wield  their  cutlasses  so  beauti- 
fully that  it  is  a  delight  to  watch  them.  One  cannot 
often  enjoy  such  a  spectacle  nowadays ;  for  the  intro- 
duction of  the  piece-work  system  has  destroyed  the  pict- 
uresqueness  of  plantation  labor  throughout  the  island, 
with  rare  exceptions.  Formerly  the  work  of  cane-cut- 
ting resembled  the  march  of  an  army ; — first  advanced 
the  cutlassers  in  line,  naked  to  the  waist ;  then  the  ainar- 
reuses,  the  women  who  tied  and  carried;  and  behind 
these  the  ka,  the  drum, — with  a  paid  crieur  or  criense  to 
lead  the  song ; — and  lastly  the  black  Commandeur,  for 
general.  And  in  the  old  days,  too,  it  was  not  unfrequent 
that  the  sudden  descent  of  an  English  corsair  on  the 
coast  converted  this  soldiery  of  labor  into  veritable  mil- 
itary :  more  than  one  attack  was  repelled  by  the  cut- 
lasses of  a  plantation  atelier. 


276  Martinique  Sketches. 

At  this  height  the  chatting  and  chanting  can  be 
heard,  though  not  distinctly  enough  to  catch  the  words. 
Suddenly  a  voice,  powerful  as  a  bugle,  rings  out, — the 
voice  of  the  Commandeur :  he  walks  along  the  line,  look- 
ing, with  his  cutlass  under  his  arm.  I  ask  one  of  our 
guides  what  the  cry  is  : — 

— "  Y  ka  conmande  yo  pouend  gade  pou  sepent"  he  re- 
plies. (He  is  telling  them  to  keep  watch  for  serpents.) 
The  nearer  the  cutlassers  approach  the  end  of  their  task, 
the  greater  the  danger :  for  the  reptiles,  retreating  before 
them  to  the  last  clump  of  cane,  become  massed  there, 
and  will  fight  desperately.  Regularly  as  the  ripening- 
time,  Death  gathers  his  toll  of  human  lives  from  among 
the  workers.  But  when  one  falls,  another  steps  into  the 
vacant  place, — perhaps  the  Commandeur  himself :  these 
dark  swordsmen  never  retreat ;  all  the  blades  swing  swift- 
ly as  before  ;  there  is  hardly  any  emotion  ;  the  travailleur 
is  a  fatalist.  .  .  .* 


*  M.  Francard  Bayardelle,  overseer  of  the  Presbourg  plantation 
at  Grande  Anse,  tells  me  that  the  most  successful  treatment  of  snake- 
bite consists  in  severe  local  cupping  and  bleeding ;  the  immediate 
application  of  twenty  to  thirty  leeches  (when  these  can  be  obtained), 
and  the  administration  of  alkali  as  an  internal  medicine.  He  has 
saved  several  lives  by  these  methods. 

The  negro panseur's  method  is  much  more  elaborate  and,  to  some 
extent,  mysterious.  He  cups  and  bleeds,  using  a  small  coui,  or  half- 
calabash,  in  lieu  of  a  glass;  and  then  applies  cataplasms  of  herbs, — 
orange-leaves,  cinnamon-leaves,  clove-leaves,  chardon-bdni,  charpen- 
tier,  perhaps  twenty  other  things,  all  mingled  together ; — this  poul- 
ticing being  continued  every  day  for  a  month.  Meantime  the  patient 
is  given  all  sorts  of  absurd  things  to  drink,  in  tafia  and  sour-orange 
juice — such  as  old  clay  pipes  ground  to  .powder,  or  the  head  of  the 
fer-de-lance  itself,  roasted  dry  and  pounded.  .  .  .  The  plantation 
negro  has  no  faith  in  any  other  system  of  cure  but  that  of  the 
panseur ; — he  refuses  to  let  the  physician  try  to  save  him,  and  will 
scarcely  submit  to  be  treated  even  by  an  experienced  white  over- 
seer. 


La  Pelee.  277 

VI.    . 

, . .  WE  enter  the  grands-bois, — the  primitive  forest,— 
the  "high  woods." 

As  seen  with  a  field-glass  from  St.  'Pierre,  these  woods 
present  only  the  appearance  of  a  band  of  moss  belting 
the  volcano,  and  following  all. its  corrugations, — so  dense- 
ly do  the  leafy  crests  intermingle.  But  on  actually  enter- 
ing them,  you  find  yourself  at  once  in  green  twilight, 
among  lofty  trunks  uprising  everywhere  like  huge  pillars 
wrapped  with  vines  ; — and  the  interspaces  between  these 
bulks  are  all  occupied  by  lianas  and  parasitic  creepers, — 
some  monstrous, — veritable  parasite-trees,  —  ascending 
at  all  angles,  or  dropping  straight  down  from  the  tallest 
crests  to  take  root  again.  The  effect  in  the  dim  light  is 
that  of  innumerable  black  ropes  and  cables  of  varying 
thicknesses  stretched  taut  from  the  soil  to  the  tree-tops, 
and  also  from  branch  to  branch,  like  rigging.  There  are 
rare  and  remarkable  «trees  here, —  acomats,  courbarils, 
balatas,  ceibas  or  fromagers,  acajous,  gommiers  ; — hun- 
dreds have  been  cut  down  by  charcoal-makers;  but  the 
forest  is  still  grand.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  Gov- 
ernment has  placed  no  restriction  upon  the  barbarous 
destruction  of  trees  by  the  charbonniers,  which  is  going 
on  throughout  the  island.  Many  valuable  woods  are  rap- 
idly disappearing.  The  courbaril,  yielding  a  fine-grained, 
heavy, "chocolate-colored  timber;  the  balata,  giving  a 
wood  even  heavier,  denser,  and  darker ;  the  acajou,  pro- 
ducing a  rich  red  wood,  with  a  strong  scent  of  cedar , 
the  bois-de-fer ;  the  bois  d'Inde ;  the  superb  acomat, — 
all  used  to  flourish  by  tens  of  thousands  upon  these  vol- 
canic slopes,  whose  productiveness  is  eighteen  times 
greater  than  that  of  the  richest  European  soil.  All  Mar- 
tinique furniture  used  to  be  made  of  native  woods ;  and 
the  colored  cabinet-makers  still  produce  work  which 
would  probably  astonish  New  York  or  London  manu- 
22 


278  Martinique  Sketches. 

facturers.  But  to-day  the  island  exports  no  more  hard 
woods:  it  has  even  been  found  necessary  to  import  much 
from  neighboring  islands;  —  and  yet  the  destruction  of 
forests  still  goes  on.  The  domestic  fabrication  of  char- 
coal from  forest-trees  has  been  estimated  at  1,400,000 
hectolitres  per  annum.  Primitive  forest  still  covers  the 
island  to  the  extent  of  21.37  Per  cent.;  but  to  find  pre- 
cious woods  now,  one  must  climb  heights  like  those  of 
Pelee  and  Carbet,  or  penetrate  into  the  mountains  of  the 
interior. 

Most  common  formerly  on  these  slopes  were  the  gom- 
miers,  from  which  canoes  of  a  single  piece,  forty- five  feet 
long  by  seven  wide,  used  to  be  made.  There  are  plenty 
of  gommiers  still ,  but  the  difficulty  of  transporting  them 
to  the  shore  has  latterly  caused  a  demand  for  the  gom- 
miers of  Dominica.  The  dimensions  of  canoes  now  made 
from  these  trees  rarely  exceed  fifteen  feet  in  length  by 
eighteen  inches  in  width :  the  art  of  making  them  is  an 
inheritance  from  the  ancient  Caribs.  First  the  trunk  is 
shaped  to  the  form  of  the  canoe,  and  pointed  at  both 
ends ;  it  is  then  hollowed  out.  The  width  of  the  hollow 
does  not  exceed  six  inches  at  the  widest  part ;  but  the 
cavity  is  then  filled  with  wet  sand,  which  in  the  course  of 
some  weeks  widens  the  excavation  by  its  weight,  and 
gives  the  boat  perfect  form.  Finally  gunwales  of  plank 
are  fastened  on  ;  seats  are  put  in — generally  four ; — and 
no  boat  is  more  durable  nor  more  swift. 

.  .  .  We  climb.  There  is  a  trace  rather  than  a  foot- 
path ; — no  visible  soil,  only  vegetable  detritus,  with  roots 
woven  over  it  in  every  direction.  The  foot  never  rests 
on  a  flat  surface, — only  upon  surfaces  of  roots  ;  and  these 
are  covered,  like  every  protruding  branch  along  the  route, 
with  a  slimy  green  moss,  slippery  as  ice.  Unless  accus- 
tomed to  walking  in  tropical  woods,  one  will  fall  at  every 
step.  In  a  little  while  I  find  it  impossible  to  advance. 


La  Pelee.  279 

Our  nearest  guide,  observing  my  predicament,  turns,  and 
without  moving  the  bundle  upon  his  head,  cuts  and  trims 
me  an  excellent  staff  with  a  few  strokes  of  his  cutlass. 
This  staff  not  only  saves  me  from  dangerous  slips,  but 
also  serves  at  times  to  probe  the  way ;  for  the  further 
we  proceed,  the  vaguer  the  path  becomes.  It  was  made 
by  the  chasseurs-de-choux  (cabbage-hunters), — the  negro 
mountaineers  who  live  by  furnishing  heads  of  young  cab- 
bage-palm to  the  city  markets ;  and  these  men  also  keep 
it  open,  —  otherwise  the  woods  would  grow  over  it  in  a 
month.  Two  chasseurs-de-choux  stride  past  us  as  we 
advance,  with  their  freshly  gathered  palm -salad  upon 
their  heads,  wrapped  in  cachibou  or  balisier  leaves,  and 
tied  with  lianas.  The  palmiste-franc  easily  reaches  a 
stature  of  one  hundred  feet ;  but  the  young  trees  are 
so  eagerly  sought  for  by  the  chasseurs-de-choux  that  in 
these  woods  few  reach  a  height  of  even  twelve  feet  be- 
fore being  cut. 

. .  .  Walking  becomes  more  difficult ; — there  seems  no 
termination  to  the  grands -bois:  always  the  same  faint 
green  light,  the  same  rude  natural  stair-way  of  slippery 
roots, — half  the  time  hidden  by  fern  leaves  and  vines. 
Sharp  ammoniacal  scents  are  in  the  air ;  a  dew,  cold  as 
ice -water,  drenches  our  clothing.  Unfamiliar  insects 
make  trilling  noises  in  dark  places ;  and  now  and  then 
a  series  of  soft  clear  notes  ring  out,  almost  like  a 
thrush's  whistle:  the  chant  of  a  little  tree-frog.  The 
path  becomes  more  and  more  overgrown  ;  and  but  for 
the  constant  excursions  of  the  cabbage  -  hunters,  we 
should  certainly  have  to  cutlass  every  foot  of  the  way 
through  creepers  and  brambles.  More  and  more  amaz- 
ing also  is  the  interminable  interweaving  of  roots :  the 
whole  forest  is  thus  spun  together — not  underground  so 
much  as  overground.  These  tropical  trees  do  not  strike 
deep,  although  able  to  climb  steep  slopes  of  porphyry 
and  basalt:  they  send  out  great  far-reaching  webs  of 


2 So  Martinique  Sketches. 

roots,  —  each  such  web  interknotting  with  others  all 
round  it,  and  these  in  turn  with  further  ones ;  while  be- 
tween their  reticulations  lianas  ascend  and  descend : 
and  a  nameless  multitude  of  shrubs  as  tough  as  india- 
rubber  push  up,  together  with  mosses,  grasses,  and  ferns. 
Square  miles  upon  square  miles  of  woods  are  thus  in- 
terlocked and  interbound  into  one  mass  solid  enough  to 
resist  the  pressure  of  a  hurricane  ;  and  where  there  is 
no  path  already  made,  entrance  into  them  can  only  be 
effected  by  the  most  dexterous  cutlassing. 

An  inexperienced  stranger  might  be  puzzled  to  un- 
derstand how  this  cutlassing  is  done.  It  is  no  easy 
feat  to  sever  with  one  blow  a  liana  thick  as  a  man's  arm ; 
the  trained  cutlasser  does  it  without  apparent  difficulty : 
moreover,  he  cuts  horizontally,  so  as  to  prevent  the  sev- 
ered top  presenting  a  sharp  angle  and  proving  after- 
wards dangerous.  He  never  appears  to  strike  hard, — 
only  to  give  light  taps  with  his  blade,  which  flickers  con- 
tinually about  him  as  he  moves.  Our  own  guides  in 
cutlassing  are  not  at  all  inconvenienced  by  their  loads; 
they  walk  perfectly  upright,  never  stumble,  never  slip, 
never  hesitate,  and  do  not  even  seem  to  perspire :  their 
bare  feet  are  prehensile.  Some  Creoles  in  our  party, 
habituated  to  the  woods,  walk  nearly  as  well  in  their 
shoes  ;  but  they  carry  n'o  loads. 

.  .  .At  last  we  are  rejoiced  to  observe  that  the  trees 
are  becoming  smaller; — there  are  no  more  colossal 
trunks ; — there  are  frequent  glimpses  of  sky :  the  sun 
has  risen  well  above  the  peaks,  and  sends  occasional 
beams  down  through  the  leaves.  Ten  minutes,  and  we 
reach  a  clear  space, — a  wild  savane,  very  steep,  above 
which  looms  a  higher  belt  of  woods.  Here  we  take  an- 
other short  rest. 

Northward  the  view  is  cut  off  by  a  ridge  covered  with 
herbaceous  vegetation  ;— but  to  the  south-west  it  is  open, 
over  a  gorge  of  which  both  sides  are  shrouded  in  som- 


La  Pelee.  281 

bre  green — crests  of  trees  forming  a  solid  curtain  against 
the  sun.  Beyond  the  outer  and  lower  cliff  valley-sur- 
faces appear  miles  away,  flinging  up  broad  gleams  of 
cane-gold ;  further  off  greens  disappear  into  blues,  and 
the  fantastic  masses  of  Carbet  loom  up  far  higher  than 
before.  St.  Pierre,  in  a  curve  of  the  coast,  is  a  little 
red-and-yellow  semicircular  streak,  less  than  two  inches 
long.  The  interspaces  between  far  mountain  chains, — 
masses  of  pyramids,  cones,  single  and  double  humps, 
queer  blue  angles  as  of  raised  knees  under  coverings, — 
resemble  misty  lakes:  they  are  filled  with  brume; — 
the  sea-line  has  vanished  altogether.  Only  the  horizon, 
enormously  heightened,  can  be  discerned  as  a  circling 
band  of  faint  yellowish  light, — auroral,  ghostly, — almost 
on  a  level  with  the  tips  of  the  P-itons.  Between  this 
vague  horizon  and  the  shore,  the  sea  no  longer  looks 
like  sea,  but  like  a  second  hollow  sky  reversed.  All 
the  landscape  has  unreal  beauty : — there  are  no  keen 
lines ;  there  are  no  definite  beginnings  or  endings ;  the 
tints  are  half -colors  only; — peaks  rise  suddenly  from 
mysteries  of  bluish  fog  as  from  a  flood ;  land  melts  into 
sea  the  same  hue.  It  gives  one  the  idea  of  some  great 
aquarelle  unfinished,  —  abandoned  before  tones  were 
deepened  and  details  brought  out. 

VII. 

WE  are  overlooking  from  this  height  the  birthplaces 
of  several  rivers ;  and  the  rivers  of  Pelee  are  the  clear- 
est and  the  coolest  of  the  island. 

From  whatever  direction  the  trip  be  undertaken,  the 
ascent  of  the  volcano  must  be  made  over  some  one  of 
those  many  immense  ridges  sloping  from  the  summit  to 
the  sea  west,  north,  and  east, — like  buttresses  eight  to 
ten  miles  long, — formed  by  ancient  lava-torrents.  Down 
the  deep  gorges  between  them  the  cloud-fed  rivers  run, — 


282  Martinique  Sketches. 

receiving  as  they  descend  the  waters  of  countless  smaller 
streams  gushing  from  either  side  of  the  ridge.  There 
are  also  cold  springs, — one  of  which  furnishes  St.  Pierre 
with  her  Eau-de-Gouyave  (guava-water),  which  is  always 
sweet,  clear,  and  cool  in  the  very  hottest  weather.  But 
the  water  of  almost  every  one  of  the  seventy-five  princi- 
pal rivers  of  Martinique  is  cool  and  clear  and  sweet. 
And  these  rivers  are  curious  in  their  way.  Their  aver- 
age fall  has  been  estimated  at  nine  inches  to  every  six 
feet; — many  are  cataracts  ; — the  Riviere  de  Case-Navire 
has  a  fall  of  nearly  150  feet  to  every  fifty  yards  of  its 
upper  course.  Naturally  these  streams  cut  for  themselves 
channels  of  immense  depth.  Where  they  flow  through 
forests  and  between  mornes,  their  banks  vary  from  1200 
to  1600  feet  high, — so  as  to  render  their  beds  inacces- 
sible;  and  many  enter  the  sea  through  a  channel  of 
rock  with  perpendicular  walls  from  150  to  200  feet  high. 
Their  waters  are  necessarily  shallow  in  normal  weather : 
but  during  rain-storms  they  become  torrents  thunderous 
and  terrific  beyond  description.  In  order  to  compre- 
hend their  sudden  swelling,  one  must  know  what  trop- 
ical rain  is.  Col.  Boyer  Peyreleau,  in  1823,  estimated 
the  annual  rainfall  in  these  colonies  at  150  inches  on 
the  coast,  to  350  on  the  mountains, — while  the  annual 
fall  at  Paris  was  only  eighteen  inches.  The  character 
of  such  rain  is  totally  different  from  that  of  rain  in  the 
temperate  zone :  the  drops  are  enormous,  heavy  like 
h'ailstones, — one  will  spatter  over  the  circumference  of 
a  saucer! — and  the  shower  roars  so  that  people  cannot 
hear  each  other  speak  without  shouting.  When  there  is 
a  true  storm,  no  roofing  seems  able  to  shut  out  the  cata- 
ract ;  the  best-built  houses  leak  in  all  directions ;  and 
objects  but  a  short  distance  off  become  invisible  behind 
the  heavy  curtain  of  water.  The  ravages  of  such  rain 
may  be  imagined  !  Roads  are  cut  away  in  an  hour ; 
trees  are  overthrown  as  if  blown  down ; — for  there  are 


La  Pelte.  283 

few  West  Indian  trees  which  plunge  their  roots  even  as 
low  as  two  feet ;  they  merely  extend  them  over  a  large 
diameter;  and  isolated  trees  will  actually  slide  under 
rain.  The  swelling  of  rivers  is  so  sudden  that  washer- 
women at  work  in  the  Roxelane  and  other  streams  have 
been  swept  away  and  drowned  without  the  least  warn- 
ing of  their  danger ;  the  shower  occurring  seven  or  eight 
miles  off. 

Most  of  these  rivers  are  well  stocked  with  fish,  of 
which  the  tetart,  banane,  loche,  and  dormeur  are  the  prin- 
cipal varieties.  The  tetart  (best  of  all)  and  the  loche 
climb  the  torrents  to  the  height  of  2500  and  even  3000 
feet :  they  have  a  kind  of  pneumatic  sucker,  which  ena- 
bles them  to  cling  to  rocks.  Under  stones  in  the  lower 
basins  crawfish  of  the  most  extraordinary  size  are  taken ; 
some  will  measure  thirty-six  inches  from  claw  to  tail. 
And  at  all  the  river-mouths,  during  July  and  August,  are 
caught  vast  numbers  of  titiri  *, — tiny  white  fish,  of  which 
a  thousand  might  be  put  into  one  teacup.  They  are  de- 
licious when  served  in  oil, — infinitely  more  delicate  than 
the  sardine.  Some  regard  them  as  a  particular  species  : 
others  believe  them  to  be  only  the  fry  of  larger  fish, — 
as  their  periodical  appearance  and  disappearance  would 
seem  to  indicate.  They  are  often  swept  by  millions  into 
the  city  of  St.  Pierre,  with  the  flow  of  mountain-water 
which  purifies  the  streets :  then  you  will  see  them  swarm- 
ing in  the  gutters,  fountains,  and  bathing-basins; — and 
on  Saturdays,  when  the  water  is  temporarily  shut  off  to 
allow  of  the  pipes  being  cleansed,  the  titiri  may  die  in 

*  The  sheet-lightnings  which  play  during  the  nights  of  July  and 
August  are  termed  in  Creole  Ze'clai-titiri,  or  "  titiri-lightnings"; — 
it  is  believed  these  give  notice  that  the  titiri  have  begun  to  swarm 
in  the  rivers.  Among  the  colored  population  there  exists  an  idea  of 
some  queer  relation  between  the  lightning  and  the  birth  of  the  little 
fish; — it  is  commonly  said,  "Zfclai-a  ka  fai  yo  /c for/ ".(the  lightning 
hatches  them). 


284  Martinique  Sketches. 

the  gutters  in  such  numbers  as  to  make  the  air  offen- 
sive. 

The  mountain-crab,  celebrated  for  its  periodical  migra- 
tions, is  also  found  at  considerable  heights.  Its  numbers 
appear  to  have  been  diminished  extraordinarily  by  its 
consumption  as  an  article  of  negro  diet ;  but  in  certain 
islands  those  armies  of  crabs  described  by  the  old  writ- 
ers are  still  occasionally  to  be  seen.  The  Pere  Du- 
tertre  relates  that  in  1640,  at  St.  Christophe,  thirty  sick 
emigrants,  temporarily  left  on  the  beach,  were  attacked 
and  devoured  alive  during  the  night  by  a  similar  species 
of  crab.  "  They  descended  from  the  mountains  in  such 
multitude,"  he  tells  us,  "that  they  were  heaped  higher 
than  houses  over  the  bodies  of  the  poor  wretches  .  .  . 
whose  bones  were  picked  so  clean  that  not  one  speck  of 
flesh  could  be  found  upon  them." .  .  . 


VIII. 

.  .  .  WE  enter  the  upper  belt  of  woods — green  twilight 
again.  There  are  as  many  lianas  as  ever :  but  they  are 
less  massive  in  stem ;  —  the  trees,  which  are  stunted, 
stand  closer  together ;  and  the  web-work  of  roots  is  finer 
and  more  thickly  spun.  These  are  called  the  petits-bois 
(little  woods),  in  contradistinction  to  the  grands-bois,  or 
high  woods.  Multitudes  of  balisiers,  dwarf-palms,  arbor- 
escent ferns,  wild  guavas,  mingle  with  the  lower  growths 
on  either  side  of  the  path,  which  has  narrowed  to  the 
breadth  of  a  wheel-rut,  and  is  nearly  concealed  by  pro- 
truding grasses  and  fern  leaves.  Never  does  the  sole  of 
the  foot  press  upon  a  surface  large  as  itself, — always  the 
slippery  backs  of  roots  crossing  at  all  angles,  like  loop- 
traps,  over  sharp  fragments  of  volcanic  rock  or  pumice- 
stone.  There  are  abrupt  descents,  sudden  acclivities, 
mud-holes,  and  fissures  ; — one  grasps  at  the  ferns  on  both 
sides  to  keep  from  falling;  and  some  ferns  are  spiked 


ARBORESCENT    FERNS   ON    A    MOUNTAIN    ROAD. 


La  Pelee.  285 

sometimes  on  the  under  surface,  and  tear  the  hands. 
But  the  barefooted  guides  stride  on  rapidly,  erect  as  ever 
under  their  loads, — chopping  off  with  their  cutlasses  any 
branches  that  hang  too  low.  There  are  beautiful  flowers 
here, — various  unfamiliar  species  of  lobelia ; — pretty  red 
and  yellow  blossoms  belonging  to  plants  which  the  cre- 
ole  physician  calls  JBromeliacece ;  and  a  plant  like  the  Guy 
Lussacia  of  Brazil,  with  violet-red  petals.  There  is  an 
indescribable  multitude  of  ferns, —  a  very  museum  of 
ferns  !  The  doctor,  who  is  a  great  woodsman,  says  that 
he  never  makes  a  trip  to  the  hills  without  finding  some 
new  kind  of  fern ;  and  he  had  already  a  collection  of 
several  hundred. 

The  route  is  continually  growing  steeper,  and  makes  a 
number  of  turns  and  windings :  we  reach  another  bit  of  sa- 
vane,  where  we  have  to  walk  over  black-pointed  stones  that 
resemble  slag ; — then  more  petits-bois,  still  more  dwarfed, 
then  another  opening.  The  naked  crest  of  the  volcano 
appears  like  a  peaked  precipice,  dark-red,  with  streaks 
of  green,  over  a  narrow  but  terrific  chasm  on  the  left : 
we  are  almost  on  a  level  with  the  crater,  but  must  make 
a  long  circuit  to  reach  it,  through  a  wilderness  of  stunted 
timber  and  bush.  The  Creoles  call  this  undergrowth  ra- 
zie :  it  is  really  only  a  prolongation  of  the  low  jungle 
which  carpets  the  high  forests  below,  with  this  difference, 
that  there  are  fewer  creepers  and  much  more  fern.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  we  reach  a  black  gap  in  the  path  about  thir- 
ty inches  wide — half  hidden  by  the  tangle  of  leaves, — La 
Fente.  It  is  a  volcanic  fissure  which  divides  the  whole 
ridge,  and  is  said  to  have  no  bottom :  for  fear  of  a  pos- 
sible slip,  the  guides  insist  upon  holding  our  hands  while 
we  cross  it.  Happily  there  are  no  more  such  clefts  ;  but 
there  are  mud-holes,  snags,  roots,  and  loose  rocks  beyond 
counting.  Least  disagreeable  are  the  bourbiers,  in  which 
you  sink  to  your  knees  in  black  or  gray  slime.  Then  the 
path  descends  into  open  light  again ; — and  we  find  our- 


286  Martinique  Sketches. 

selves  at  the  Etang,— in  the  dead  Crater  of  the  Three 
Palmistes. 

An  immense  pool,  completely  encircled  by  high  green 
walls  of  rock,  which  shut  out  all  further  view,  and  shoot 
up,  here  and  there,  into  cones,  or  rise  into  queer  lofty 
humps  and  knobs.  One  of  these  elevations  at  the  oppo- 
site side  has  almost  the  shape  of  a  blunt  horn :  it  is  the 
Morne  de  la  Croix.  The  scenery  is  at  once  imposing  and 
sinister :  the  shapes  towering  above  the  lake  and  reflect- 
ed in  its  still  surface  have  the  weirclness  of  things  seen 
in  photographs  of  the  moon.  Clouds  are  circling  above 
them  and  between  them; — one  descends  to  the  water, 
haunts  us  a  moment,  blurring  everything ;  then  rises 
again.  We  have  travelled  too  slow ;  the  clouds  have 
had  time  to  gather. 

I  look  in  vain  for  the  Three  Palmistes  which  gave  the 
crater  a  name  :  they  were  destroyed  long  ago.  But  there 
are  numbers  of  young  ones  scattered  through  the  dense 
ferny  covering  of  the  lake -slopes, — just  showing  their 
heads  like  bunches  of  great  dark-green  feathers. 

— The  estimate  of  Dr.  Rufz,  made  in  1851,  and  the 
estimate  of  the  last  "Annuaire  "  regarding  the  circumfer- 
ence of  the  lake,  are  evidently  both  at  fault.  That  of 
the  "Annuaire,"  150  metres,  is  a  gross  error  :  the  writer 
must  have  meant  the  diameter,  —  following  Rufz,  who 
estimated  the  circumference  at  something  over  300  paces. 
As  we  find  it,  the  Etang,  which  is  nearly  circular,  must 
measure  200  yards  across ;— perhaps  it  has  been  great- 
ly swollen  by  the  extraordinary  rains  of  this  summer. 
Our  guides  say  that  the  little  iron  cross  projecting  from 
the  water  about  two  yards  off  was  high  and  dry  on  the 
shore  last  season.  At  present  there  is  only  one  narrow 
patch  of  grassy  bank  on  which  we  can  rest,  between  the 
water  and  the  walls  of  the  crater. 

The  lake  is  perfectly  clear,  with  a  bottom  of  yellowish 


La  Pelee.  287 

shallow  mud,  which  rests — according  to  investigations 
made  in  1851 — upon  a  mass  of  pumice-stone  mixed  in 
places  with  ferruginous  sand;  and  the  yellow  mud  itself 
is  a  detritus  of  pumice-stone.  We  strip  for  a  swim. 

Though  at  an  elevation  of  nearly  5000  feet,  this  water 
is  not  so  cold  as  that  of  the  Roxelane,  nor  of  other  rivers 
of  the  north-west  and  north-east  coasts.  It  has  an 
agreeable  fresh  taste,  like  dew.  Looking  down  into  it, 
I  see  many  larvae  of  the  maringouin,  or  large  mosquito  : 
no  fish.  The  maringouins  themselves  are  troublesome, — 
whirring  around  us  and  stinging.  On  striking  out  for  the 
middle,  one  is  surprised  to  feel  the  water  growing  slightly 
warmer.  The  committee  of  investigation  in  1851  found 
the  temperature  of  the  lake,  in  spite  of  a  north  wind, 
20.5  Centigrade,  while  that  of  the  air  was  but  19  (about 
69  F.  for  the  water,  and  66,2  for  the  air).  The  depth  in 
the  centre  is  over  six  feet ;  the  average  is  scarcely  four. 

Regaining  the  bank,  we  prepare  to  ascend  the  Morne 
de  la  Croix.  The  circular  path  by  which  it  is  common- 
ly reached  is  now  under  water;  and  we  have  to  wade 
up  to  our  waists.  All  the  while  clouds  keep  passing 
over  us  in  great  slow  whirls.  Some  are  white  and  half- 
transparent  ;  others  opaque  and  dark  gray ;  —  a  dark 
cloud  passing  through  a  white  one  looks  like  a  goblin. 
Gaining  the  opposite  shore,  we  find  a  very  rough  path 
over  splintered  stone,  ascending  between  the  thickest 
fern-growths  possible  to  imagine.  The  general  tone  of 
this  fern  is  dark  green  ;  but  there  are  paler  cloudings  of 
yellow  and  pink, — due  to  the  varying  age  of  the  leaves, 
which  are  pressed  into  a  cushion  three  or  four  feet  high, 
and  almost  solid  enough  to  sit  upon.  About  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty 'yards  from  the  crater  edge,  the  path  rises 
above  this  tangle,  and  zigzags  up  the  morne,  which  now 
appears  twice  as  lofty  as  from  the  lake,  where  we  had 
a  curiously  foreshortened  view  of  it.  It  then  looked 
scarcely  a  hundred  feet  high  ;  it  is  more  than  double 


288  Martinique  Sketches. 

that.  The  cone  is  green  to  the  top  with  moss,  low 
grasses,  small  fern,  and  creeping  pretty  plants,  like  vio- 
lets, with  big  carmine  flowers.  The  path  is  a  black  line  : 
the  rock  laid  bare  by  it  looks  as  if  burned  to  the  core. 
We  have  now  to  use  our  hands  in  climbing ;  but  the 
low  thick  ferns  give  a  good  hold.  Out  of  breath,  and 
drenched  in  perspiration,  we  reach  the  apex, — the  high- 
est point  of  the  island.  But  we  are  curtained  about 
with  clouds, — moving  in  dense  white  and  gray  masses : 
we  cannot  see  fifty  feet  away. 

The  top  of  the  peak  has  a  slightly  slanting  surface  of 
perhaps  twenty  square  yards,  very  irregular  in  outline  ; — 
southwardly  the  morne  pitches  sheer  into  a  frightful 
chasm,  between  the  converging  of  two  of  those  long  cor- 
rugated ridges  already  described  as  buttressing  the  vol- 
cano on  all  sides.  Through  a  cloud-rift  we  can  see  an- 
other crater-lake  twelve  hundred  feet  below — said  to  be 
five  times  larger  than  the  fitang  we  have  just  left :  it  is 
also  of  more  irregular  outline.  This  is  called  the  Etang 
Sec,  or  "  Dry  Pool,"  because  dry  in  less  rainy  seasons. 
It  occupies  a  more  ancient  crater,  and  is  very  rarely 
visited :  the  path  leading  to  it  is  difficult  and  danger- 
ous,— a  natural  ladder  of  roots  and  lianas  over  a  series 
of  precipices.  Behind  us  the  Crater  of  the  Three  Palm- 
istes  now  looks  no  larger  than  the  surface  on  which  we 
stand; — over  its  further  boundary  we  can  see  the  wall 
of  another  gorge,  in  which  there  is  a  third  crater-lake. 
West  and  north  are  green  peakings,  ridges,  and  high 
lava  walls  steep  as  fortifications.  All  this  we  can  only 
note  in  the  intervals  between  passing  of  clouds.  As  yet 
there  is  no  landscape  visible  southward ; — we  sit  down 
and  wait. 

IX. 

.  .  .  Two  crosses  are  planted  nearly  at  the  verge  of 
the  precipice ;  a  small  one  of  iron  ;  and  a  large  one  of 


La  Pelee.  289 

wood  —  probably  the  same  put  up  by  the  Abbe  Lespi- 
nasse  during  the  panic  of  1851,  after  the  eruption.  This 
has  been  splintered  to  pieces  by  a  flash  of  lightning; 
and  the  fragments  are  clumsily  united  with  cord.  There 
is  also  a  little  tin  plate  let  into  a  slit  in  a  black  post :  it 
bears  a  date, — 8  Avril,  1867,  .  .  .  The  volcanic  vents, 
which  were  active  in  1851,  are  not  visible  from  the  peak: 
they  are  in  the  gorge  descending  from  it,  at  a  point  near- 
ly on  a  level  with  the  Etang  Sec. 

The  ground  gives  out  a  peculiar  hollow  sound  when 
tapped,  and  is  covered  with  a  singular  lichen, — all  com- 
posed of  round  overlapping  leaves  about  one-eighth  of 
an  inch  in  diameter,  pale  green,  and  tough  as  fish-scales. 
Here  and  there  one  sees  a  beautiful  branching  growth, 
like  a  mass  of  green  coral :  it  is  a  gigantic  moss.  Ca- 
bane- Jesus  ("bed  of-Jesus")  the  patois  name  is:  at 
Christmas-time,  in  all  the  churches,  those  decorated  cribs 
in  which  the  image  of  the  Child-Saviour  is  laid  are  filled 
with  it.  The  creeping  crimson  violet  is  also  here.  Fire- 
flies with  bronze -green  bodies  are  crawling  about; — I 
notice  also  small  frogs,  large  gray  crickets,  and  a  species 
of  snail  with  a  black  shell.  A  solitary  humming-bird 
passes,  with  a  beautiful  blue  head,  flaming  like  sapphire. 

All  at  once  the  peak  vibrates  to  a  tremendous  sound 
from  somewhere  below.  ...  It  is  only  a  peal  of  thunder; 
but  it  startled  at  first,  because  the  mountain  rumbles 
and  grumbles  occasionally.  .  .  .  From  the  wilderness  of 
ferns  about  the  lake  a  sweet  long  low  whistle  comes — 
three  times  ; — a  siffleur-de-montagne  has  its  nest  there. 

There  is  a  rain-storm  over  the  woods  beneath  us  : 
clouds  now  hide  everything  but  the  point  on  which  we 
rest ;  the  crater  of  the  Palmistes  becomes  invisible.  But 
it  is  only  for  a  little  while  that  we  are  thus  befogged  :  a 
wind  comes,  blows  the  clouds  over  us,  lifts  them  up  and 
folds  them  like  a  drapery,  and  slowly  whirls  them  away 
northward.  And  for  the  first  time  the  view  is  clear  over 
23 


290  Martinique  Sketches. 

the  intervening  gorge, — now  spanned  by  the  rocket-leap 
of  a  perfect  rainbow. 

.  .  .  Valleys  and  mornes,  peaks  and  ravines, —  suc- 
ceeding each  other  swiftly  as  surge  succeeds  surge  in  a 
storm,—  a  weirdly  tossed  world,  but  beautiful  as  it  is 
weird :  all  green  the  foreground,  with  all  tints  of  green, 
shadowing  off  to  billowy  distances  of  purest  blue.  The 
sea-line  remains  invisible  as  ever :  you  know  where 
it  is  only  by  the  zone  of  pale  light  ringing  the  double 
sphericity  of  sky  and  ocean.  And  in  this  double  blue 
void  the  island  seems  to  hang  suspended  :  far  peaks 
seem  to  come  up  from  nowhere,  to  rest  on  nothing— like 
forms  of  mirage.  Useless  to  attempt  photography  ;— 
distances  take  the  same  color  as  the  sea.  Vauclin's 
truncated  mass  is  recognizable  only  by  the  shape  of  its 
indigo  shadows.  All  is  vague,  vertiginous; — the  land 
still  seems  to  quiver  with  the  prodigious  forces  that 
up-heaved  it. 

High  over  all  this  billowing  and  peaking  tower  the  Pi- 
tons  of  Carbet,  gem-violet  through  the  vapored  miles, — 
the  tallest  one  filleted  with  a  single  soft  white  band  of 
cloud.  Through  all  the  wonderful  chain  of  the  Antilles 
you  might  seek  in  vain  for  other  peaks  exquisite  of  form 
as  these.  Their  beauty  no  less  surprises  the  traveller  to- 
day than  it  did  Columbus  three  hundred  and  eighty-six 
years  ago,  when — on  the  thirteenth  day  of  June,  1502 — 
his  caravel  first  sailed  into  sight  of  them,  and  he  asked 
his  Indian  guide  the  name  of  the  unknown  land,  and  the 
names  of  those  marvellous  shapes.  Then,  according  to 
Pedro  Martyr  de  Anghiera,  the  Indian  answered  that  the 
name  of  the  island  was  Madiana  ;  that  those  peaks  had 
been  venerated  from  immemorial  time  by  the  ancient 
peoples  of  the  archipelago  as  the  birthplace  of  the  hu- 
man race ;  and  that  the  first  brown  habitants  of  Madia- 
na, having  been  driven  from  their  natural  heritage  by 
the  man-eating  pirates  of  the  south — the  cannibal  Car- 


La  Pelee.  291 

ibs, — remembered  and  mourned  for  their  sacred  mount- 
ains, and  gave  the  names  of  them,  for  a  memory,  to  the 
loftiest  summits  of  their  new  home, — Hayti.  .  .  .  Surely 
never  was  fairer  spot  hallowed  by  the  legend  of  man's 
nursing- place  than  the  valley  blue-shadowed  by  those 
peaks, — worthy,  for  their  gracious  femininity  of  shape, 
to  seem  the  visible  breasts  of  the  All-nourishing  Moth- 
er,— dreaming  under  this  tropic  sun. 

Touching  the  zone  of  pale  light  north-east,  appears  a 
beautiful  peaked  silhouette, — Dominica.  We  had  hoped 
to  perceive  Saint  Lucia  \  but  the  atmosphere  is  too  heav- 
ily charged  with  vapor  to-day.  How  magnificent  must 
be  the  view  on  certain  extraordinary  days,  when  it 
reaches  from  Antigua  to  the  Grenadines — over  a  range 
of  three  hundred  miles !  But  the  atmospheric  conditions 
which  allow  of  such  a  spectacle  are  rare  indeed.  As  a 
general  rule,  even  in  the  most  unclouded  West  Indian 
weather,  the  loftiest  peaks  fade  into  the  light  at  a  dis- 
tance of  one  hundred  miles. 

A  sharp  ridge  covered  with  fern  cuts  off  the  view  of 
the  northern  slopes :  one  must  climb  it  to  look  down 
upon  Macouba.  Macouba  occupies  the  steepest  slope 
of  Pelee,  and  the  grimmest  part  of  the  coast :  its  little 
chef-lieu  is  industrially  famous  for  the  manufacture  of 
native  tobacco,  and  historically  for  the  ministrations  of 
Pere  Labat,  who  rebuilt  its  church.  Little  change  has 
taken  place  in  the  parish  since  his  time.  "  Do  you  know 
Macouba  ?"  asks  a  native  writer; — "  it  is  not  Pelion  upon 
Ossa,  but  ten  or  twelve  Pelions  side  by  side  with  ten  or 
twelve  Ossae,  interseparated  by  prodigious  ravines.  Men 
can  speak  to  each  other  from  places  whence,  by  rapid 
walking,  it  would  require  hours  to  meet ; — to  travel  there 
is  to  experience  on  dry  land  the  sensation  of  the  sea." 

With  the  diminution  of  the  warmth  provoked  by  the 
exertion  of  climbing,  you  begin  to  notice  how  cool  it 
feels ; — you  could  almost  doubt  the  testimony  of  your 


292  Martinique  Sketches. 

latitude.  Directly  east  is  Senegambia :  we  are  well 
south  of  Timbuctoo  and  the  Sahara, — on  a  line  with 
southern  India.  The  ocean  has  cooled  the  winds ;  at 
this  altitude  the  rarity  of  the  air  is  northern ;  but  in  the 
valleys  below  the  vegetation  is  African.  The  best  ali- 
mentary plants,  the  best  forage,  the  flowers  of  the  gar- 
dens, are  of  Guinea ; — the  graceful  date-palms  are  from 
the  Atlas  region :  those  tamarinds,  whose  thick  shade 
stifles  all  other  vegetal  life  beneath  it,  are  from  Senegal. 
Only,  in  the  touch  of  the  air,  the  vapory  colors  of  dis- 
tance, the  shapes  of  the  hills,  there  is  a  something  not 
of  Africa :  that  strange  fascination  which  has  given  to 
the  island  its  poetic  Creole  name, — le  Pays  des  Revenants. 
And  the  charm  is  as  puissant  in  our  own  day  as  it  was 
more  than  two  hundred  years  ago,  when  Pere  Dutertre 
wrote : — "  I  have  never  met  one  single  man,  nor  one 
single  woman,  of  all  those  who  came  back  therefrom,  in 
whom  I  have  not  remarked  a  most  passionate  desire  to 
return  thereunto." 

Time  and  familiarity  do  not  weaken  the  charm,  either 
for  those  born  among  these  scenes  who  never  voyaged 
beyond  their  native  island,  or  for  those  to  whom  the 
streets  of  Paris  and  the  sheets  of  St.  Pierre  are  equally 
well  known.  Even  at  a  time  when  Martinique  had  been 
forsaken  by  hundreds  of  her  ruined  planters,  and  the 
paradise-life  of  the  old  days  had  become  only  a  memory 
to  embitter  exile, — a  Creole  writes  : — 

— "  Let  there  suddenly  open  before  you  one  of  those 
vistas,  or  anses,  with  colonnades  of  cocoa-palm — at  the 
end  of  which  you  see  smoking  the  chimney  of  a  sugar- 
mill,  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  hamlet  of  negro  cabins 
(cases}  j — or  merely  picture  to  yourself  one  of  the  most 
ordinary,  most  trivial  scenes :  nets  being  hauled  by  two 
ranks  of  fishermen ;  a  canot  waiting  for  the  embellie  to 
make  a  dash  for  the  beach  ;  even  a  negro  bending  under 
the  weight  of  a  basket  of  fruits,  and  running  along  the 


La  Pelte.  293 

shore  to  get  to  market ; — and  illuminate  that  with  the 
light  of  our  sun  !  What  landscapes  ! — O  Salvator  Rosa! 
O  Claude  Lorrain, — if  I  had  your  pencil !  .  .  .  Well  do  I 
remember  the  day  on  which,  after  twenty  years  of  ab- 
sence, I  found  myself  again  in  presence  of  these  won- 
ders ; — I  feel  once  more  the  thrill  of  delight  that  made 
all  my  body  tremble,  the  tears  that  came  to  my  eyes. 
It  was  my  land,  my  own  land,  that  .appeared  so  beau- 
tiful.".  .  .* 

X. 

AT  the  beginning,  while  gazing  south,  east,  west,  to 
the  rim  of  the  world,  all  laughed,  shouted,  interchanged 
the  quick  delight  of  new  impressions :  every  face  was 
radiant.  .  .  .  Now  all  look  serious ; — none  speak.  The 
first  physical  joy  of  finding  oneself  on  this  point  in  vio- 
let air,  exalted  above  the  hills,  soon  yields  to  other  emo- 
tions inspired  by  the  mighty  vision  and  the  colossal 
peace  of  the  heights.  Dominating  all,  I  think,  is  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  awful  antiquity  of  what  one  is  look- 
ing upon, — such  a  sensation,  perhaps,  as  of  old  found 
utterance  in  that  tremendous  question  of  the  Book  of 
job :— "  Wast  thou  brought  forth  before  the  hills  ?". . .  And 
the  blue  multitude  of  the  peaks,  the  perpetual  congre- 
gation of  the  mornes,  seem  to  chorus  in  the  vast  re- 
splendence,— telling  of  Nature's  eternal  youth,  and  the 
passionless  permanence  of  that  about  us  and  beyond  us 
and  beneath,  —  until  something  like  the  fulness  of  a 
great  grief  begins  to  weigh  at  the  heart.  .  .  .  For  all  this 
astonishment  of  beauty,  all  this  majesty  of  light  and 
form  and  color,  will  surely  endure, — marvellous  as  now,— 
after  we  shall  have  lain  down  to  sleep  where  no  dreams 
come,  and  may  never  arise  from  the  dust  of  our  rest  to 
look  upon  it. 

*  Dr.  E.  Rufz:  "  Etudes  historiques,"  vol.  i.,  p.  189. 


TI    CANOTIE. 


i. 

ONE  might  almost  say  that  commercial  time  in  St. 
Pierre  is  measured  by  cannon-shots, — by  the  signal-guns, 
of  steamers.  Every  such  report  announces  an  event  of  ex- 
treme importance  to  the  whole  population.  To  the  mer- 
chant it  is  a  notification  that  mails,  money,  and  goods  have 
arrived ; — to  consuls  and  Government  officials  it  gives 
notice  of  fees  and  dues  to  be  collected ; — for  the  host  of 
lightermen,  longshoremen,  port  laborers  of  all  classes,  it 
promises  work  and  pay;  —  for  all  it  signifies  the  arrival 
of  food.  The  island  does  not  feed  itself :  cattle,  salt 
meats,  hams,  lard,  flour,  cheese,  dried  fish,  all  come  from 
abroad, — particularly  from  America.  And  in  the  minds 
of  the  colored  population  the  American  steamer  is  so 
intimately  associated  with  the  idea  of  those  great  tin 
cans  in  which  food-stuffs  are  brought  from  the  United 
States,  that  the  onomatope  applied  to  the  can,  because 
of  the  sound  outgiven  by  it  when  tapped, —  bom! — is 
also  applied  to  the  ship  itself.  The  English  or  French 
or  Belgian  steamer,  however  large,  is  only  known  as 
packett-a,  batiment-la ;  but  the  American  steamer  is  al- 
ways the  "bom -ship  " — batiment-bom-a ;  or,  the  "food- 
ship  " — batiment-mange-a.  .  .  .  You  hear  women  and  men 
asking  each  other,  as  the  shock  of  the  gun  flaps  through 
all  the  town,  "Mi/  gade  fa  qui  la,  che  ?"  And  if  the  an- 
swer be,  "Mais  Jest  bom-la,  che, — bom-mange-a  ka  rive" 
(Why,  it  is  the  bom,  dear,— the  food-bom  that  has  come), 
great  is  the  exultation. 


'  Ti  Canotit*.  295 

Again,  because  of  the  sound  of  her  whistle,  we  find  a 
steamer  called  in  this  same  picturesque  idiom,  batiment- 
cbne, — "the  horn-ship."  There  is  even  a  song,  of  which 
the  refrain  is  :— 

"Bom-la  rive,  die, — • 
Batiment-cone-la  rive." 

.  .  .  But  of  all  the  various  classes  of  citizens,  those 
most  joyously  excited  by  the  coming  of  a  great  steamer, 
whether  she  be  a  "bom"  or  not, — are  the  'ticanotie,  who 
swarm  out  immediately  in  little  canoes  of  their  own  man- 
ufacture to  dive  for  coins  which  passengers  gladly  throw 
into  the  water  for  the  pleasure  of  witnessing  the  grace- 
ful spectacle.  No  sooner  does  a  steamer  drop  anchor — 
unless  the  water  be  very  rough  indeed — than  she  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  fleet  of  the  funniest  little  boats  imagina- 
ble, full  of  naked  urchins  screaming  Creole. 

These  V/  canotie  —  these  little  canoe  -  boys  and  pro- 
fessional divers— are,  for  the  most  part,  sons  of  boatmen 
of  color,  the  real  canotiers.  I  cannot  find  who  first  in- 
vented the  '//'  canot :  the  shape  and  dimensions  of  the 
little  canoe  are  fixed  according  to  a  tradition  several  gen- 
erations old ;  and  no  improvements  upon  the  original 
model  seem  to  have  ever  been  attempted,  with  the  sole 
exception  of  a  tiny  water-tight  box  contrived  sometimes 
at  one  end,  in  which  ft\t  palettes,  or  miniature  paddles,  and 
various  other  trifles  may  be  stowed  away.  The  actual 
cost  of  material  for  a  canoe  of  this  kind  seldom  exceeds 
twenty-five  or  thirty  cents;  and,  nevertheless,  the  number 
of  canoes  is  not  very  large — I  doubt  if  there  be  more  than 
fifteen  in  the  harbor; — as  the  families  of  Martinique 
boatmen  are  all  so  poor  that  twenty-five  sous  are  difficult 
to  spare,  in  spite  of  the  certainty  that  the  little  son  can 
earn  fifty  times  the  amount  within  a  month  after  owning 
a  canoe. 

For  the  manufacture  of  a  canoe  an  American  lard-box 


296  Martinique  Sketches. 

or  kerosene-oil  box  is  preferred  by  reason  of  its  shape ; 
but  any  well  -  constructed  shipping- case  of  small  size 
would  serve  the  purpose.  The  top  is  removed  ;  the  sides 
and  the  corners  of  the  bottom  are  sawn  out  at  certain 
angles  ;  and  the  pieces  removed  are  utilized  for  the  sides 
of  the  bow  and  stern, — sometimes  also  in  making  the  lit- 
tle box  for  the  paddles,  or  palettes,  which  are  simply  thin 
pieces  of  tough  wood  about  the  form  and  size  of  a.  cigar- 
box  lid.  Then  the  little  boat  is  tarred  and  varnished  : 
it  cannot  sink, — though  it  is  quite  easily  upset.  There 
are  no  seats.  The  boys  (there  are  usually  two  to  each 
canot)  simply  squat  down  in  the  bottom, — facing  each 
other.  They  can  paddle  with  surprising  swiftness  over 
a  smooth  sea ;  and  it  is  a  very  pretty  sight  to  witness 
one  of  their  prize  contests  in  racing, — which  take  place 
every  i4th  of  July.  .  .  . 


TI    CANOT. 
A,  stern; — B,  little  box  for  the  palettes,  etc.; — C,prow. 

II. 

...  IT  was  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  :  the  horizon 
beyond  the  harbor  was  turning  lemon-color  ; — and  a  thin 
warm  wind  began  to  come  in  weak  puffs  from  the  south- 
west,— the  first  breaths  to  break  the  immobility  of  the 
tropical  air.  Sails  of  vessels  becalmed  at  the  entrance 
of  the  bay  commenced  to  flap  lazily :  they  might  belly 
after  sundown. 


'  TV  Canotit.  297 

The  La  Guayra  was  in  port,  lying  well  out :  her 
mountainous  iron  mass  rising  high  above  the  modest 
sailing  craft  moored  in  her  vicinity, — barks  and  brigan- 
tines  and  brigs  and  schooners  and  barkentines.  She 
had  lain  before  the  town  the  whole  afternoon,  surround- 
ed by  the  entire  squadron  of  'ticanots;  and  the  boys 
were  still  circling  about  her  flanks,  although  she  had  got 
up  steam  and  was  lifting  her  anchor.  They  had  been 
very  lucky,  indeed,  that  afternoon, —  all  the  little  cano- 
tiers  ; — and  even  many  yellow  lads,  not  fortunate  enough 
to  own  canoes,  had  swum  out  to  her  in  hope  of  sharing 
the  silver  shower  falling  from  her  saloon-deck.  Some 
of  these,  tired  out,  were  resting  themselves  by  sitting  on 
the  slanting  cables  of  neighboring  ships.  Perched  naked 
thus, — balancing  in  the  sun,  against  the  blue  of  sky  or 
water,  their  slender  bodies  took  such  orange  from  the 
mellowing  light  as  to  seem  made  of  some  self-luminous 
substance, — flesh  of  sea-fairies.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  La  Guayra  opened  her  steam-throat  and 
uttered  such  a  moo  that  all  the  mornes  cried  out  for  at 
least  a  minute  after; — and  the  little  fellows  perched  on 
the  cables  of  the  sailing  craft  tumbled  into  the  sea  at  the 
sound  and  struck  out  for  shore.  Then  the  water  all  at 
once  burst  backward  in  immense  frothing  swirls  from 
beneath  the  stern  of  the  steamer ;  and  there  arose  such 
a  heaving  as  made  all  the  little  canoes  dance.  The  La 
Guayra  was  moving.  She  moved  slowly  at  first,  making 
a  great  fuss  as  she  turned  round  :  then  she  began  to 
settle  down  to  her  journey  very  majestically, — just  mak- 
ing the  water  pitch  a  little  behind  her,  as  the  hem  of  a 
woman's  robe  tosses  lightly  at  her  heels  while  she  walks. 

And,  contrary  to  custom,  some  of  the  canoes  followed 
after  her.  A  dark  handsome  man,  wearing  an  immense 
Panama  hat,  and  jewelled  rings  upon  his  hands,  was  still 
throwing  money ;  and  still  the  boys  dived  for  it.  But 
only  one  of  each  crew  now  plunged ;  for,  though  the  La 


298  Martinique  Sketches. 

Guayra  was  yet  moving  slowly,  it  was  a  severe  strain  to 
follow  her,  and  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost. 

The  captain  of  the  little  band — black  Maximilien,  ten 
years  old,  and  his  comrade  Stephane —  nicknamed  2'i 
Chabin,  because  of  his  bright  hair,— a  slim  little  yellow 
boy  of  eleven  —  led  the  pursuit,  crying  always,  " Enco, 
Missie, — encb /"  .... 

The  La  Guayra  had  gained  fully  two  hundred  yards 
when  the  handsome  passenger  made  his  final  largess, — 
proving  himself  quite  an  expert  in  flinging  coin.  The 
piece  fell  far  short  of  the^>oys,  but  near  enough  to  dis- 
tinctly betray  a  yellow  shimmer  as  it  twirled  to  the  water. 
That  was  gold ! 

In  another  minute  the  leading  canoe  had  reached 
the  spot,  the  other  canotiers  voluntarily  abandoning  the 
quest, — for  it  was  little  use  to  contend  against  Maximilien 
and  Stephane,  who  had  won  all  the  canoe  contests  last  1 4th 
of  July.  Stephane,  who  was  the  better  diver,  plunged. 

He  was  much  ^nger  below  than  usual,  came  up  at 
quite  a  distance,  panted  as  he  regained  the  canoe,  and 
rested  his  arms  upon  it.  The  water  was  so  deep  there, 
he  could  not  reach  the  coin  the  first  time,  though  he 
could  see  it :  he  was  going  to  try  again, — it  was  gold, 
sure  enough. 

— "Foiling  f  fa  fond  ifitt !"  he  gasped. 

Maximilien  felt  all  at  once  uneasy.  Very  deep  water, 
and  perhaps  sharks.  And  sunset  not  far  off !  The  La 
Guayra  was  diminishing  in  the  offing. 

— "Bong-la  'le  fai  nou  neye  ! — laisse  y,  Stephane!"  he 
cried.  (The  fellow  wants  to  drown  us.  Laisse — leave 
it  alone.) 

But  Stephane  had  recovered  breath,  and  was  evidently 
resolved  to  try  again.  It  was  gold  ! 

— "Mais  fa  test  tb!" 

— "AsseZj  non  /"  screamed  Maximilien.  "Pa  plonge 
'neb,  moin  ka  di  on  !  Ah  !  foute  /"  .  .  . 


'TV  Canotti.  299 

Stephane  had  dived  again  ! 

.  .  .  And  where  were  the  others?  " Bon-Die,  gade  oti 
yo  ye  /"  They  were  almost  out  of  sight, — tiny  specks 
moving  shoreward.  .  .  .  The  La  Guayra  now  seemed  no 
bigger  than  the  little  packet  running  between  St.  Pierre 
and  Fort-de-France. 

Up  came  Stephane  again,  at  a  still  greater  distance 
than  before, — holding  high  the  yellow  coin  in  one  hand. 
He  made  for  the  canoe,  and  Maximilien  paddled  towards 
him  and  helped  him  in.  Blood  was  streaming  from  the 
little  diver's  nostrils,  and  blood  colored  the  water  he  spat 
from  his  mouth. 

— "Ah!  moin  te  ka  di  ou  laisse  yf"  cried  Maximilien, 
in  anger  and  alarm.  .  .  .  "Gade,  gade  sang-a  ka  coule  nans 
nez  on, — nans  bouche  ou  /-.  .  .  Mi  oti  lezautt !" 

Lezautt,  the  rest,  were  no  longer  visible. 

— "Et  mi  oti  nou  ye  /"  cried  Maximilien  again.  They 
had  never  ventured  so  far  from  shore. 

But  Stephane  answered  only,  "  C'est  lo  /"  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  held  a  piece  of  gold  in  his  fin- 
gers. He  tied  it  up  in  a  little  rag  attached  to  the  string 
fastened  about  his  waist, —  a  purse  of  his  own  inven- 
tion,— and  took  up  his  paddles,  coughing  the  while  and 
spitting  crimson. 

— "Mi!  mi! — mi  oti  nou  ye!"  reiterated  Maximilien. 
" Bon- Die  I  look  where  we  are  !" 

The  Place  had  become  indistinct; — the  light-house, 
directly  behind  half  an  hour  earlier,  now  lay  well  south  : 
the  red  light  had  just  been  kindled.  Seaward,  in  ad- 
vance of  the  sinking  orange  disk  of  the  sun,  was  the  La 
Guayra,  passing  to  the  horizon.  There  was  no  sound 
from  the  shore  :  about  them  a  great  silence  had  gath- 
ered,— the  Silence  of  seas,  which  is  a  fear.  Panic  seized 
them  :  they  began  to  paddle  furiously. 

But  St.  Pierre  did  not  appear  to  draw  any  nearer. 
Was  it  onty  an  effect  of  the  dying  light,  or  were  they 


3OO  Martinique  Sketches. 

actually  moving  towards  the  semicircular  cliffs  of  Fond- 
Corre  ?  .  .  .  Maximilien  began  to  cry.  The  little  chabin 
paddled  on,— though  the  blood  was  stilt  trickling  over 
his  breast. 

Maximilien  screamed  out  to  him  : — 

—"  Ou  pa  ka  pagaye, — anh  ? — ou  ni  bousoin  domiT* 
(Thou  dost  not  paddle,  eh  ? — thou  wouldst  go  to  sleep  ?) 

—"Si!  moin  ka  pagaye, —  epi  fb /"  (I  am  paddling, 
and  hard,  too !)  responded  Stephane.  .  .  . 

— "  Ou  ka  pagaye  ! — ou  ka  menti  /"  (Thou  art  pad- 
dling ! — thou  liest !)  vociferated  Maximilien.  ..."  And 
the  fault  is  all  thine.  I  cannot,  all  by  myself,  make  the 
canoe  to  go  in  water  like  this  !  The  fault  is  all  thine :  I 
told  thee  not  to  dive,  thou  stupid  !" 

— "  Oufou!"  cried  Stephane,  becoming  angry.  "Mom 
ka  pagaye  /"  (I  am  paddling.) 

— "  Beast !  never  may  we  get  home  so  !  Paddle,  thou 
lazy  ; — paddle,  thou  nasty  !" 

— "Macaque  thou  ! — monkey !" 

— "  Chabin  ! — must  be  chabin,  for  to  be  stupid'so  !" 

—"Thou  black  monkey  ! — thou  species  of  ouistiti /" 

— "  Thou  tortoise-of-the-land  !  —  thou  slothful  more 
than  molocoye  /" 

— "  Why,  thou  cursed  monkey,  if  thou  sayest  I  do  not 
paddle,  thou  dost  not  know  how  to  paddle  !"  .  .  . 

.  .  .  But  Maximilien's  whole  expression  changed :  he 
suddenly  stopped  paddling,  and  stared  before  him  and 
behind  him  at  a  great  violet  band  broadening  across  the 
sea  northward  out  of  sight ;  and  his  eyes  were  big  with 
terror  as  he  cried  out : — 

— "Mais  ni  qui  chose  qui  double  icitt  f .  .  .  There  is 
something  queer,  Stephane;  there  is  something  queer.". . . 

— "Ah  !  you  begin  to  see  now,  Maximilien  ! — it  is  the 
current !" 

— "A  devil -current,  Stephane.  .  .  .  We  are  drifting: 
we  will  go  to  the  horizon  !"  .  .  . 


'TiCanotie.  301 

To  the  horizon — "  nou  kalle  Ihorizon!" — a  phrase  of 
terrible  picturesqueness.  ...  In  the  Creole  tongue,  "  to 
the  horizon"  signifies  to  the  Great  Open — into  the  meas- 
ureless sea. 

— "  C'est pa  lapeine  pagaye  atouelement"  (It  is  no  use  to 
paddle  now),  sobbed  Maximilien,  laying  down  his  palettes. 

— "Si/  si!"  said  Stephane,  reversing  the  motion: 
"paddle  with  the  current." 

— "  With  the  current !     It  runs  to  La  Dominique  !" 

— "Pouloss"  phlegmatically  returned  Stephane, — "  en- 
no  u  ! — let  us  make  for  La  Dominique  !" 

— :"  Thou  fool ! — it  is  more  than  past  forty  kilometres. 
.  .  .  Stephane,  mi!  gade  ! — mi  qui goubs  requ'em  /" 

A  long  black  fin  cut  the  water  almost  beside  them, 
passed,  and  vanished, — a  requin  indeed !  But,  in  his 
patois,  the  boy  almost  re-echoed  the  name  as  uttered  by 
quaint  Pere  Dutertre,  who,  writing  of  strange  fishes  more 
than  two  hundred  years  ago,  says  it  is  called  REQUIEM, 
because  for  the  man  who  findeth  himself  alone  with  it  in 
the  midst  of  the  sea,  surely  a  requiem  must  be  sung. 

— "Do  not  paddle,  Stephane! — do  not  put  thy  hand 
in  the  water  again  !" 

III. 

.  .  .  THE  La  Guayra  was  a  point  on  the  sky-verge ;  — 
the  sun's  face  had  vanished.  The  silence  and  the  dark- 
ness were  deepening  together. 

— "Si  lanme  ka  vini  plis  fo,  fa  nou  ke  fai?"  (If  the 
sea  roughens,  what  are  we  to  do  ?)  asked  Maximilien. 

— "  Maybe  we  will  meet  a  steamer,"  answered  Ste- 
phane :  "  the  Orinoco  was  due  to-day." 

— "  And  if  she  pass  in  the  night  ?" 

— "They  can  see  us."  .  .  . 

— "  No,  they  will  not  be  able  to  see  us  at  all.  There 
is  no  moon." 

— "They  have  lights  ahead." 


302  Martinique  Sketches. 

— "  I  tell  thee,  they  will  not  see  us  at  all,— pies s  ! pies s ! 
piessf" 

— "Then  they  will  hear  us  cry  out." 

— "  No, — we  cannot  cry  so  loud.  One  can  hear  noth- 
ing but  a  steam-whistle  or  a  cannon,  with  the  noise  of 
the  wind  and  the  water  and  the  machine.  .  .  .  Even  on 
the  Fort-de-France  packet  one  cannot  hear  for  the  ma- 
chine. And  the  machine  of  the  Orinoco  is  more  big  than 
the  church  of  the  '  Centre.'  " 

—  "Then  we  must  try  to  get  to  La  Dominique." 

.  .  .  They  could  now  feel  the  sweep  of  the  mighty  cur- 
rent ;— it  even  seemed  to  them  that  they  could  hear  it,— 
a  deep  low  whispering.  At  long  intervals  they  saw 
lights,— the  lights  of  houses  in  Pointe-Prince,  in  Fond- 
Canonville, — in  Au  Precheur.  Under  them  the  depth 
was  unfathomed  : — hydrographic  charts  mark  it  sans- 
fond.  And  they  passed  the  great  cliffs  of  Aux  Abymes, 
under  which  lies  the  Village  of  the  Abysms. 

The  red  glare  in  the  west  disappeared  suddenly  as  if 
blown  out ; — the  rim  of  the  sea  vanished  into  the  void  of 
the  gloom  ;- — the  night  narrowed  about  them,  thickening 
like  a  black  fog.  And  the  invisible,  irresistible  power  of 
the  sea  was  now  bearing  them  away  from  the  tall  coast, — 
over  profundities  unknown, —  over  the  sans-fond, —  out 
"to  the  horizon." 

IV. 

.  .  .  BEHIND  the  canoe  a  long  thread  of  pale  light 
quivered  and  twisted  :  bright  points  from  time  to  time 
mounted  up,  glowered  like  eyes,  and  vanished  again  ;— 
glimmerings  of  faint  flame  wormed  away  on  either  side 
as  they  floated  on.  And  the  little  craft  no  longer  rocked 
as  before  ; — they  felt  another  and  a  larger  motion, — long 
slow  ascents  and  descents  enduring  for  minutes  at  a 
time  ;  —  they  were  riding  the  great  swells, —  riding  the 
horizon  ! 


'  Ti  Canotit.  303 

Twice  they  were  capsized.  But  happily  the  heaving 
was  a  smooth  one,  and  their  little  canoe  could  not  sink : 
they  groped  for  it,  found  it,  righted  it,  and  climbed  in, 
and  baled  out  the  water  with  their  hands. 

From  time  to  time  they  both  cried  out  together,  as 
loud  as  they  could, — "Sucou! — sucou  ! — sucou!" — hop- 
ing that  some  one  might  be  looking  for  them.  .  .  .  The 
alarm  had  indeed  been  given  ;  and  one  of  the  little  steam- 
packets  had  been  sent  out  to  look  for  them, — with  torch- 
fires  blazing  at  her  bows ;  but  she  had  taken  the  wrong 
direction. 

— "  Maximilien,"  said  Stephane,  while  the  great  heav- 
ing seemed  to  grow  vaster, — "fan  nou  ka  prie  Bon-Die" .  .  . 

Maximilien  answered  nothing. 

— "  Fau  prie  Bon-Die  "  (We  must  pray  to  the  Bon-Die), 
repeated  Ste'phane. 

— "Pa  lapeine,  li  pas  pe  oue  nou  afbf"  (It  is  not  worth 
while:  He  cannot  see  us  now)  answered  the  little  black. 
...  In  the  immense  darkness  even  the  loom  of  the  island 
was  no  longer  visible. 

— "  O  Maximilien ! — Bon-Die  ka  oue  toutt,  ka  connaitt 
toutt"  (He  sees  all ;  He  knows  all),  cried  Stephane. 

— "  Y pa  pe  oue  non  piess  atoueelement,  moin  ben  sur!" 
(He  cannot  see  us  at  all  now, — I  am  quite  sure)  irrever- 
ently responded  Maximilien.  .  .  . 

—"Thou  thinkest  the  Bon-Die  like  thyself !— He  has 
not  eyes  like  thou,"  protested  Stephane.  "Li pas  ka  tint 
coule  ;  li  pas  ka  tini  zie  "  (He  has  not  color;  He  has  not 
eyes),  continued  the  boy,  repeating  the  text  of  his  cate- 
chism,— the  curious  Creole  catechism  of  old  Pere  Goux, 
of  Carbet.  [Quaint  priest  and  quaint  catechism  have 
both  passed  away.] 

— "Moin  pa  save  "Si  It  pa  ka  tini  coule  "  (I  know  not  if 
He  has  not  color),  answered  Maximilien.  "But  what  I 
well  know  is  that  if  He  has  not  eyes,  He  cannot  see.  .  .  . 
Fouinq  /—how  idiot !" 


304  Martinique  Sketches. 

—"Why,  it  is  in  the  Catechism,"  cried  Stephane.  .  .  . 
UiI?on-Die,  It  conm  vent:  vent  tout-patoiit,  et  nou  pa  save 
oue  li ; — //'  ka  touche  nou, — //  ka  boulvese  lanme?  "  (The 
Good-God  is  like  the  Wind :  the  Wind  is  everywhere,  and 
we  cannot  see  It ; — It  touches  us, — It  tosses  the  sea.) 

—"If  the  Bon-Die  is  the  Wind,"  responded  Maxi- 
milien,  "then  pray  thou  the  Wind  to  stay  quiet." 

—"The  Bon-Die  is  not  the  Wind,"  cried  Stephane: 
"  He  is  like  the  Wind,  but  He  is  not  the  Wind."  .*.  . 

— "AhJ  soc-soc !— fouinq  !.  .  .  More  better  past  praying 
to  care  we  be  riot  upset  again  and  eaten  by  sharks." 
#  *  *  *  #  *  * 

.  .  .  Whether  the  little  chabin  prayed  either  to  the  W7ind 
or  to  the  Bon-Die,  I  do  not  know.  But  the  Wind  re- 
mained very  quiet  all  that  night, — seemed  to  hold  its 
breath  for  fear  of  ruffling  the  sea.  And  in  the  Mouillage 
of  St.  Pierre  furious  American  captains  swore  at  the 
Wind  because  it  would  not  fill  their  sails. 


V. 

PERHAPS,  if  there  had  been  a  breeze,  neither  Stephane 
nor  Maximilien  would  have  seen  the  sun  again.  But 
they  saw  him  rise. 

Light  pearled  in  the  east,  over  the  edge  of  the  ocean, 
ran  around  the  rim  of  the  sky  and  yellowed  :  then  the 
sun's  brow  appeared  ; — a  current  of  gold  gushed  rippling 
across  the  sea  before  him ; — and  all  the  heaven  at  once 
caught  blue  fire  from  horizon  to  zenith.  Violet  from 
flood  to  cloud  the  vast  recumbent  form  of  Pelee  loomed 
far  behind, —  with  long  reaches  of  mountaining :  pale 
grays  o'ertopping  misty  blues.  And  in  the  north  another 
lofty  shape  was  towering, — strangely  jagged  and  peaked 
and  beautiful, — the  silhouette  of  Dominica:  a  sapphire 
saw !  .  .  .  No  wandering  clouds  : — over  far  Pelee  only  a 
shadowy  piling  of  nimbi.  .  .  .  Under  them  the  sea  swayed 


'TV  Canotti.  305 

dark  as  purple  ink — a  token  of  tremendous  depth.  .  .  . 
Still  a  dead  calm,  and  no  sail  in  sight. 

—"Qa  <?est  la  Dominique"  said  Maximilien, — "Ennou 
pou  ouivage-a  /" 

They  had  lost  their  little  palettes  during  the  night ; — 
they  used  their  naked  hands,  and  moved  swiftly.  But  Do- 
minica was  many  and  many  a  mile  away.  Which  was  the 
nearer  island,  it  was  yet  difficult  to  say ; — in  the  morn- 
ing sea-haze,  both  were  vapory, — difference  of  color  was 
largely  due  to  position.  .  .  . 

Sough  ! — sough  ! — sough  ! — A  bird  with  a  white  breast 
passed  overhead;  and  they  stopped  paddling  to  look  at 
it, — a  gull.  Sign  of  fair  weather! — it  was  making  for 
Dominica. 

— "  Main  ni  ben  f aim"  murmured  Maximilien.  Nei- 
ther had  eaten  since  the  morning  of  the.  previous  day, — 
most  of  which  they  had  passed  sitting  in  their  canoe. 

—"Mom  ni  anni  soif"  said  Stephane.  And  besides 
his  thirst  he  complained  of  a  burning  pain  in  his  head, 
always  growing  worse.  He  still  coughed,  and  spat  out 
pink  threads  after  each  burst  of  coughing. 

The  heightening  sun  flamed  whiter  and  whiter:  the 
flashing  of  waters  before  his  face  began  to  dazzle  like  a 
play  of  lightning.  .  .  .  Now  the  islands  began  to  show 
sharper  lines,  stronger  colors ;  and  Dominica  was  evi- 
dently the  nearer ; — for  bright  streaks  of  green  were 
breaking  at  various  angles  through  its  vapor -colored 
silhouette,  and  Martinique  still  remained  all  blue. 

.  .  .  Hotter  and  hotter  the  sun  burned ;  more  and 
more  blinding  became  his  reverberation.  Maximilien's 
black  skin  suffered  least;  but  both  lads,  accustomed  as 
they  were  to  remaining  naked  in  the  sun,  found  the  heat 
difficult  to  bear.  They  would  gladly  have  plunged  into 
the  deep  water  to  cool  themselves,  but  for  fear  of 
sharks ; — all  they  could  do  was  to  moisten  their  heads, 
and  rinse  their  mouths  with  sea-water. 
24 


306  Martinique  Sketches. 

Each  from  his  end  of  the  canoe  continually  watched 
the  horizon.  Neither  hoped  for  a  sail,  there  was  no 
wind  •  but  they  looked  for  the  coming  of  steamers, — the 
Orinoco  might  pass,  or  the  English  packet,  or  some  one 
of  the  small  Martinique  steamboats  might  be  sent  out  to 
find  them. 

Yet  hours  went  by ;  and  there  still  appeared  no 
smoke  in  the  ring  of  the  sky, — never  a  sign  in  all  the 
round  of  the  sea,  broken  only  by  the  two  huge  silhou- 
ettes. .  .  .  But  Dominica  was  certainly  nearing ; — the 
green  lights  were  spreading  through  the  luminous  blue 
of  her  hills. 

.  .  .  Their  long  immobility  in  the  squatting  posture 
began  to  tell  upon  the  endurance  of  both  boys, — pro- 
ducing dull  throbbing  aches  in  thighs,  hips,  and  loins.  . . . 
Then,  about  mid-day,  Stephane  declared  he  could  not 
paddle  any  more  ; — it  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  head  must 
soon  burst  open  with  the  pain  which  filled  it :  even  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice  hurt  him, — he  did  not  want  to 
talk. 

VI. 

.  .  .  AND  another  oppression  came  upon  them, — in 
spite  of  all  the  pains,  and  the  blinding  dazzle  of  waters, 
and  the  biting  of  the  sun :  the  oppression  of  drowsiness. 
They  began  to  doze  at  intervals, — keeping  their  canoe 
balanced  in  some  automatic  way, — as  cavalry  soldiers, 
overweary,  ride  asleep  in  the  saddle. 

But  at  last,  Stephane,  awaking  suddenly  with  a  par- 
oxysm of  coughing,  so  swayed  himself  to  one  side  as  to 
overturn  the  canoe;  and  both  found  themselves  in  the  sea. 

Maximilien  righted  the  craft,  and  got  in  again ;  but 
the  little  chabin  twice  fell  back  in  trying  to  raise  himself 
upon  his  arms.  He  had  become  almost  helplessly  feeble. 
Maximilien,  attempting  to  aid  him,  again  overturned  the 
unsteady  little  boat;  and  this  time  it  required  all  his 


'TV  Canotie.  307 

skill  and  his  utmost  strength  to  get  Stephane  out  of  the 
water.  Evidently  Stephane  could  be  of  no  more  assist- 
ance ; — the  boy  was  so  weak  he  could  not  even  sit  up 
straight. 

— "  A'ie  !  ou  ke  jete  nou  encb"  panted  Maximilien, — 
"  mette  on  toutt  longue" 

Stephane  slowly  let  himself  down,  so  as  to  lie  nearly 
all  his  length  in  the  canoe, — one  foot  on  either  side  of 
Maximilien's  hips.  Then  he  lay  very  still  for  a  long 
time, — so  still  that  Maximilien  became  uneasy. 

— "  Ou  ben  maladeV  he  asked.  .  .  .  Stephane  did  not 
seem  to  hear  :  his  eyes  remained  closed. 

—"Stephane!"  cried  Maximilien,  in  alarm, — "Ste- 
phane !" 

— "C'est  lb,  papoute"  murmured  Stephane,  without 
lifting  his  eyelids, — "  fa  C'est  lb  ! — ou  pa  janmain  oue  yon 
bel  piece  conm  fa  ?"  (It  is  gold,  little  father.  .  .  .  Didst 
thou  ever  see  a  pretty  piece  like  that  ?  .  .  .  No,  thou  wilt 
not  beat  me,  little  father? — no, papoute !} 

— "  Ou  ka  dbmi,  Stephane  1"  —  queried  Maximilien, 
wondering, — "  art  asleep  ?" 

But  Stdphane  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  him  so 
strangely !  Never  had  he  seen  Stephane  Ipok  that  way 
before. 

—"Qa  ou  ni,  Stephane •? — what  ails  thee  ? — die!  Bon- 
Die,  Bon-Die!" 

— " Bon-Die  /" — muttered  Stephane,  closing  his  eyes 
again  at  the  sound  of  the  great  Name, — "  He  has  no 
color ; — He  is  like  the  Wind."  .  .  . 

—"  Stephane  !"  .  .  . 

— "  He  feels  in  the  dark  ; — He  has  not  eyes."  .  .  . 

— "  Stephane,  pa  pale  fa  /  /  " 

— "  He  tosses  the  sea.  ...  He  has  no  face  ; — He  lifts 
up  the  dead  .  .  .  and  the  leaves."  .  .  . 

— "  Ou  fou  /"  cried  Maximilien,  bursting  into  a  wild 
fit  of  sobbing, — "  Stephane,  thou  art  mad  !" 


308  Martinique  Sketches. 

And  all  at  once  he  became  afraid  of  Stephane, — 
afraid  of  all  he  said, — afraid  of  his  touch, — afraid  of  his 
eyes,  ...  he  was  growing  like  a  zombi ! 

But  Stephane's  eyes  remained  closed; — he  ceased  to 
speak. 

.  . .  About  them  deepened  the  enormous  silence  of  the 
sea ; — low  swung  the  sun  again.  The  horizon  was  yel- 
lowing :  day  had  begun  to  fade.  Tall  Dominica  was 
now  half  green ;  but  there  yet  appeared  no  smoke,  no 
sail,  no  sign  of  life. 

And  the  tints  of  the  two  vast  Shapes  that  shattered 
the  rim  of  the  light  shifted  as  if  evanescing, — shifted 
like  tones  of  West  Indian  fishes, — of  pisquette  and  con- 
gre> — of  caringue  and  goubs-zie  and  balaou.  Lower  sank 
the  sun ; — cloud-fleeces  of  orange  pushed  up  over  the 
edge  of  the  west ;  —  a  thin  warm  breath  caressed  the 
sea, — sent  long  lilac  shudderings  over  the  flanks  of  the 
swells.  Then  colors  changed  again :  violet  richened  to 
purple  ; — greens  blackened  softly  ; — grays  smouldered 
into  smoky  gold. 

And  the  sun  went  down. 


VII. 

AND  they  floated  into  the  fear  of  the  night  together. 
Again  the  ghostly  fires  began  to  wimple  about  them  : 
naught  else  was  visible  but  the  high  stars. 

Black  hours  passed.  From  minute  to  minute  Maxi- 
milien  cried  out: — "Sucou!  sucou  /"  Stephane  lay  mo- 
tionless and  dumb  :  his  feet,  touching  Maximilien's  na- 
ked hips,  felt  singularly  cold. 

.  .  .  Something  knocked  suddenly  against  the  bottom 
of  the  canoe, — knocked  heavily — making  a  hollow  loud 
sound.  It  was  not  Stephane ; — Stephane  lay  still  as  a 
stone :  it  was  from  the  depth  below.  Perhaps  a  great 
fish  passing. 


'  Ti  Canotie.  309 

It  came  again, — twice, — shaking  the  canoe  like  a  great 
blow.  Then  Stephane  suddenly  moved, — drew  up  his 
feet  a  little,— made  as  if  to  speak:— "Ou  .  .  .";  but  the 
speech  failed  at  his  lips, — ending  in  a  sound  like  the 
moan  of  one  trying  to  call  out  in  sleep ; — and  Maximil- 
ien's  heart  almost  stopped  beating.  .  .  .  Then  Stephane's 
limbs  straightened  again;  he  made  no  more  movement; — 
Maximilien  could  not  even  hear  him  breathe. . .  .  All  the 
sea  had  begun  to  whisper. 

A  breeze  was  rising ; — Maximilien  felt  it  blowing  upon 
him.  All  at  once  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  ceased 
to  be  afraid, — that  he  did  not  care  what  might  happen. 
He  thought  about  a  cricket  he  had  one  day  watched  in 
the  harbor, — drifting  out  with  the  tide,  on  an  atom  of 
dead  bark, — and  he  wondered  what  had  become  of  it. 
Then  he  understood  that  he  himself  was  the  cricket, — 
still  alive.  But  some  boy  had  found  him  and  pulled  off 
his  legs.  There  they  were, —  his  own  legs,  pressing 
against  him :  he  could  still  feel  the  aching  where  they 
had  been  pulled  off ;  and  they  had  been  dead  so  long 
they  were  now  quite  cold.  ...  It  was  certainly  Stephane 
who  had  pulled  them  off.  ... 

The  water  was  talking  to  him.  It  was  saying  the 
same  thing  over  and  over  again, — louder  each  time,  as 
if  it  thought  he  could  not  hear.  But  he  heard  it  very 
well  :—'•'' Bon -Die,  li  conm  vent .  .  .  //'  ka  tonche  nou  .  .  . 
nou pa  save  one  li"  (But  why  had  the  Bon-Die  shaken 
the  wind?)  "  Li  pa  ka  tini  zie"  answered  the  water.  .  .  . 
Ouille ! — He  might  all  the  same  care  not  to  upset  folks 
in  the  sea !  .  .  .  Mi  / .  .  . 

But  even  as  he  thought  these  things,  Maximilien  be- 
came aware  that  a  white,  strange,  bearded  face  was  look- 
ing at  him :  the  Bon-Die  was  there, — bending  over  him 
with  a  lantern, — talking  to  him  in  a  language  he  did  not 
understand.  And  the  Bon-Die  certainly  had  eyes, — 
great  gray  eyes  that  cUcl  not  look  wicked  at  all.  He 


3io  Martinique  Sketches. 

tried  to  tell  the  Bon-Die  how  sorry  he  was  for  what  he 
had  been  saying  about  him ; — but  found  he  could  not 
utter  a  word.  He  felt  great  hands  lift  him  up  to  the 
stars,  and  lay  him  down  very  near  them, — just  under 
them.  They  burned  blue- white,  and  hurt  his  eyes  like 
lightning:  —  he  felt  afraid  of  them.  .  .  .  About  him  he 
heard  voices, — always  speaking  the  same  language,  which 
he  could  not  understand.  .  .  .  "Poor  little  devils!— poor 
little  devils  /"  Then  he  heard  a  bell  ring ;  and  the  Bon- 
Die  made  him  swallow  something  nice  and  warm  ; — and 
everything  became  black  again.  The  stars  went  out ! .  .  . 

.  .  .  Maximilien  was  lying  under  an  electric -light  on 
board  the  great  steamer  Rio  de  Janeiro,  and  dead  Ste- 
phane  beside  him.  ...  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the- morn- 
ing. 


LA    FILLE    DE   COULEUR. 

i. 

NOTHING  else  in  the  picturesque  life  of  the  French 
colonies  of  the  Occident  impresses  the  traveller  on  his 
first  arrival  more  than  the  costumes  of  the  women  of 
color.  They  surprise  the  aesthetic  sense  agreeably; — 
they  are  local  and  special :  you  will  see  nothing  resem- 
bling them  among  the  populations  of  the  British  West 
Indies ;  they  belong  to  Martinique,  Guadeloupe,  Desi- 
rade,  Marie-Galante,  and  Cayenne, — in  each  place  differ- 
ing sufficiently  to  make  the  difference  interesting,  espe- 
cially in  regard  to  the  head-dress.  That  of  Martinique 
is  quite  Oriental ;  —  more  attractive,  although  less  fan- 
tastic than  the  Cayenne  coiffure,  or  the  pretty  drooping 
mouchoir  of  Guadeloupe. 

These  costumes  are  gradually  disappearing,  for  various 
reasons, — the  chief  reason  being  of  course  the  changes 
in  the  social  condition  of  the  colonies  during  the  last 
forty  years.  Probably  the  question  of  health  had  also 
something  to  do  with  the  almost  universal  abandon- 
ment in  Martinique  of  the  primitive  slave-dress, — che- 
mise and  jupe, — which  exposed  its  wearer  to  serious 
risks  of  pneumonia;  for  as  far  as  economical  reasons 
are  concerned,  there  was  no  fault  to  find  with  it:  six 
francs  could  purchase  it  when  money  was  worth  more 
than  it  is  now.  The  douillette,  a  long  trailing  dress, 
one  piece  from  neck  to  feet,  has  taken  its  place.*  But 

*  The  brightly  colored  douillettes  are  classified  by  the  people  ac- 


312  Martinique  Sketches. 

there  was  a  luxurious  variety  of  the  jupe  costume  which 
is  disappearing  because  of  its  cost;  there  is  no  money 
in  the  colonies  now  for  such  display  : — I  refer  to  the  cel- 
ebrated attire  of  the  pet  slaves  and  belles  affranchies  of 
the  old  colonial  days.  A  full  costume, — including  violet 
or  crimson  "  petticoat "  of  silk  or  satin ;  chemise  with 
half-sleeves,  and  much  embroidery  and  lace  ;  "  trembling- 
pins  "  of  gold  (zepingue  tremblant)  to  attach  the  folds  of 
the  brilliant  Madras  turban ;  the  great  necklace  of  three 
or  four  strings  of  gold  beads  bigger  than  peas  (collier- 


cording  to  the  designs  of  the  printed  calico: — robe-h-bambou, — robe- 
a-bouquet, — robe-arc-en-ciel, — robe-a-carreau, — etc.,  according  as  the 
pattern  is  in  stripes,  flower-designs,  "rainbow"  bands  of  different 
tints,  or  plaidings.  Ronde-en-ronde  means  a  stuff"  printed  with  disk- 
patterns,  or  link-patterns  of  different  colors, — each  joined  with  the 
other.  A  robe  of  one  color  only  is  called  a  robe-uni. 

The  general  laws  of  contrasts  observed  in  the  costume  require  the 
silk  foulard,  or  shoulder-kerchief,  to  make  a  sharp  relief  with  the 
color  of  the  robe,  thus:— 

Robe.  Foulard. 

Yellow Blue. 

Dark  blue Yellow. 

Pink Green. 

Violet Bright  red. 

Red Violet. 

Chocolate  (cacoa) Pale  blue. 

Sky  blue Pale  rose. 

These  refer,  of  course,  to  dominant  or  ground  colors,  as  there  are 
usually  several  tints  in  the  foulard  as  well  as  the  robe.  The  painted 
Madras  should  always  be  bright  yellow.  According  to  popular  ideas 
of  good  dressing,  the  different  tints  of  skin  should  be  relieved  by 
special  choice  of  color  in  the  robe,  as  follows: — 

Capresse  (a  clear  red  skin)  should  wear Pale  yellow. 

(  Rose. 
Mulatresse  (according  to  shade) \  Blue. 

(  Green. 

'  (  Scarlet,  or  any  violent  color, 


La  Fille  de  Couleur. 


313 


choux);  the  ear-rings,  immense  but  light  as  egg-shells 
(zanneaux  -  a  -  clous  or  zanneaux-  chenilles);  the  bracelets 
(portes-bonheur)  ;  the  studs  (boutons-a-clous)  ;  the  brooch- 
es, not  only  for  the  turban,  but  for  the  chemise,  below 
the  folds  of  the  showy  silken  foulard  or  shoulder-scarf,  — 


THE   MARTINIQUE   TURBAN,  OR    "MADRAS    CALENDER  " 

would  sometimes  represent  over  five  thousand  francs 
expenditure.  This  gorgeous  attire  is  becoming  less  visi- 
ble every  year :  it  is  now  rarely  worn  except  on  very 
solemn  occasions,  —  weddings,  baptisms,  first  commun- 
ions, confirmations,  The  da  (nurse)  or  "porteuse-de- 


314  Martinique  Sketches. 

bapteme  "  who  bears  the  baby  to  church  holds  it  at  the 
baptismal  font,  and  afterwards  carries  it  from  house  to 
house  in  order  that  all  the  friends  of  the  family  may 
kiss  it,  is  thus  attired ;  but  nowadays,  unless  she  be  a 
professional  (for  there  are  professional  das,  hired  only 
for  such  occasions),  she  usually  borrows  the  jewellery. 
If  tall,  young,  graceful,  with  a  rich  gold  tone  of  skin,  the 
effect  of  her  costume  is  dazzling  as  that  of  a  Byzantine 
Virgin.  I  saw  one  young  da  who,  thus  garbed,  scarcely 
seemed  of  the  earth  and  earthly  ; — there  was  an  Oriental 
something  in  her  appearance  difficult  to  describe, — 
something  that  made  you  think  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
going  to  visit  Solomon.  She  had  brought  a  merchant's 
baby,  just  christened,  to  receive  the  caresses  of  the 
family  at  whose  house  I  was  visiting ;  and  when  it  came 
to  my  turn  to  kiss  it,  I  confess  I  could  not  notice  the 
child :  I  saw  only  the  beautiful  dark  face,  coiffed  with 
orange  and  purple,  bending  over  it,  in  an  illumination  of 
antique  gold.  .  .  .  What  a  da !  ...  She  represented  really 
the  type  of  that  belle  affranchie  of  other  days,  against 
whose  fascination  special  sumptuary  laws  were  made  : 
romantically  she  imaged  for  me  the  supernatural  god- 
mothers and  Cinderellas  of  the  Creole  fairy-tales.  For 
these  become  transformed  in  the  West  Indian  folk- 
lore,— adapted  to  the  environment,  and  to  local  idealism : 
Cinderella,  for  example,  is  changed  to  a  beautiful  metisse, 
wearing  a  quadruple  collier -choux,  zepingues  tremblants, 
and  all  the  ornaments  of  a  da.*  Recalling  the  impres- 

*  .  .  ."  Vouela  Cendrillon  evec        — "  There  was  Cendrillon  with 

yon  bel  robe  velou  grande  lakhe.  a  beautiful  long  trailing  robe  of 

„,    A ,  ,     ,.,     '         ,    .,      T  .  velvet  on  her!  ...  It  was  enough 

ga  te  ka  bail  ou  mal  zie.    Li  tQ  hurt  one>s  eyes  tQ  look  &t  ^ 

te  tini  bel  zanneau  dans  zoreill  h,  She   had  beautiful  rings  in  her 

quate-tou-chou,  bouoche,  brace-  ears,  and  a  collier-choux  of  four 

let,  tremblant,  — toutt    s6te    bel  rows,  brooches,  tremblants,  brace- 

,,  ,„     j.  lets, — everything  fine  of  that  sort, 

baggaie   cornn   ?a.    .  .  .-\Conte  _^tory  &  Cinderella  in  Turi- 

Cendrillon, — cTaprei  Turiaull^\  ault's  Creole  Grammar. 


THE   GUADELOUPE   HEAD-DRESS. 


La  Fille  de  Couleur.  3 1 5 

sion  of  that  dazzling  da,  I  can  even  now  feel  the  pict- 
uresque justice  of  the  fabulist's  description  of  Cinder- 
ella's Creole  costume :  Qa  te  ka  bailie  ou  mal  zief — (it 
would  have  given  you  a  pain  in  your  eyes  to  look  at 
her!) 

.  .  .  Even  the  every-day  Martinique  costume  is  slowly 
changing.  Year  by  year  the  "  calendeuses  " — the  women 
who  paint  and  fold  the  turbans — have  less  work  to  do  ; — 
the  colors  of  the  douillette  are  becoming  less  vivid ; — 
while  more  and  more  young  colored  girls  are  being 
elevees  en  chapeau  ("  brought  up  in  a  hat  ") — i.e.,  dressed 
and  educated  like  the  daughters  of  the  whites.  These, 
it  must  be  confessed,  look  far  less  attractive  in  the 
latest  Paris  fashion,  unless  white  as  the  whites  them- 
selves :  on  the  other  hand,  few  white  girls  could  look 
well  in  douillette  and  mouchoir, — not  merely  because  of 
color  contrast,  but  because  they  have  not  that  ampli- 
tude of  limb  and  particular  cambering  of  the  torso  pe- 
culiar to  the  half-breed  race,  with  its  large  bulk  and  stat- 
ure. Attractive  as  certain  coolie  women  are",  I  observed 
that  all  who  have  adopted  the  Martinique  costume  look 
badly  in  it :  they  are  too  slender  of  body  to  wear  it  to 
advantage. 

Slavery  introduced  these  costumes,  even  though  it 
probably  did  not  invent  them  ;  and  they  were  necessarily 
doomed  to  pass  away  with  the  peculiar  social  conditions 
to  which  they  belonged.  If  the  population  clings  still  to 
its  douillettes,  mouchoir s,  and  foulards,  the  fact  is  largely 
due  to  the  cheapness  of  such  attire.  A  girl  can  dress 
very  showily  indeed  for  about  twenty  francs — shoes  ex- 
cepted ; — and  thousands  never  wear  shoes.  But  the 
fashion  will  no  doubt  have  become  cheaper  and  uglier 
within  another  decade. 

At  the  present  time,  however,  the  stranger  might  be 
sufficiently  impressed  by  the  oddity  and  brilliancy  of 
these  dresses  to  ask  about  their  origin, — in  which  case  it 


316  Martinique  Sketches. 

is  not  likely  that  he  will  obtain  any  satisfactory  answer. 
After  long  research  I  found  myself  obliged  to  give  up  all 
hope  of  being  able  to  outline  the  history  of  Martinique 
costume, — partly  because  books  and  histories  are  scanty 
or  defective,  and  partly  because  such  an  undertaking 
would  require  a  knowledge  possible  only  to  a  specialist. 
I  found  good  reason,  nevertheless,  to  suppose  that  these 
costumes  were  in  the  beginning  adopted  from  certain 
fashions  of  provincial  France, — that  the  respective  fash- 
ions of  Guadeloupe,  Martinique,  and  Cayenne  were  pat- 
terned after  modes  still  worn  in  parts  of  the  mother- 
country.  The  old-time  garb  of  the  affranchie — that 
still  worn  by  the  /T^— somewhat  recalls  dresses  worn  by 
the  women  of  Southern  France,  more  particularly  about 
Montpellier.  Perhaps  a  specialist  might  also  trace  back 
the  evolution  of  the  various  Creole  coiffures  to  old  forms 
of  head-dresses  which  still  survive  among  the  French 
country-fashions  of  the  south  and  south-west  provinces ; — 
but  local  taste  has  so  much  modified  the  original  style 
as  to  leave  it  unrecognizable  to  those  who  have  never 
studied  the  subject.  The  Martinique  fashion  of  folding 
and  tying  the  Madras,  and  of  calendering  it,  are  probably 
local ;  and  I  am  assured  that  the  designs  of  the  curious 
semi-barbaric  jewellery  were  all  invented  in  the  colony, 
where  the  collier-choux  is  still  manufactured  by  local 
goldsmiths.  Purchasers  buy  one,  two,  or  three  grains,  or 
beads,  at  a  time,  and  string  them  only  on  obtaining  the 
requisite  number.  .  .  .  This  is  the  sum  of  all  that  I  was 
able  to  learn  on  the  matter ;  but  in  the  course  of  search- 
ing various  West  Indian  authors  and  historians  for  in- 
formation, I  found  something  far  more  important  than 
the  origin  of  the  donillette  or  the  collier  -  choux  \  the 
facts  of  that  strange  struggle  between  nature  and  inter- 
est, between  love  and  law,  between  prejudice  and  pas- 
sion, which  forms  the  evolutional  history  of  the  mixed 
race. 


La  Fille  de  Couleur. 


317 


II. 

CONSIDERING  only  the  French  peasant  colonist  and 
the  West  African  slave  as  the  original  factors  of  that 
physical  evolution  visible  in  the  modern  fille-de-couleur, 


YOUNG   MULATTRESS. 


it  would  seem  incredible ; — for  the  intercrossing  alone 
could  not  adequately  explain  all  the  physical  results. 
To  understand  them  fully,  it  will  be  necessary  to  bear 
in  mind  that  both  of  the  original  races  became  modified 


318  Martinique  Sketches. 

in  their  lineage  to  a  surprising  degree  by  conditions  of 
climate  and  environment. 

The  precise  time  of  the  first  introduction  of  slaves 
into  Martinique  is  not  now  possible  to  ascertain, — no 
record  exists  on  the  subject;  but  it  is  probable  that  the 
establishment  of  slavery  was  coincident  with  the  settle- 
ment of  the  island.  Most  likely  the  first  hundred  colo- 
nists from  St.  Christophe,  who  landed,  in  1635,  near  the 
bay  whereon  the  city  of  St.  Pierre  is  now  situated,  either 
brought  slaves  with  them,  or  else  were  furnished  with 
negroes  very  soon  after  their  arrival.  In  the  time  of 
Pere  Dutertre  (who  visited  the  colonies  in  1640,  and 
printed  his  history  of  the  French  Antilles  at  Paris  in 
1667)  slavery  was  already  a  flourishing  institution,— 
the  foundation  of  the  whole  social  structure.  Accord- 
ing to  the  Dominican  missionary,  the  Africans  then  in 
the  colony  were  decidedly  repulsive;  he  describes  the 
women  as  "hideous"  (hideuses}.  There  is  no  good  rea- 
son to  charge  Dutertre  with  prejudice  in  his  pictures  of 
them.  No  writer  of  the  century  was  more  keenly  sensi- 
tive to  natural  beauty  than  the  author  of  that  "Voyage 
aux  Antilles"  which  inspired  Chateaubriand,  and  which 
still,  after  two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  delights  even 
those  perfectly  familiar  with  the  nature  of  the  places 
and  things  spoken  of.  No  other  writer  and  traveller  of 
the  period  possessed  to  a  more  marked  degree  that 
sense  of  generous  pity  which  makes  the  unfortunate  ap- 
pear to  us  in  an  illusive,  almost  ideal  aspect  Neverthe- 
less, he  asserts  that  the  negresses  were,  as  a  general 
rule,  revoltingly  ugly, — and,  although  he  had  seen  many 
strange  sides  of  human  nature  (having  been  a  soldier 
before  becoming  a  monk),  was  astonished  to  find  that 
miscegenation  had  already  begun.  Doubtless  the  first 
black  women  thus  favored,  or  afflicted,  as  the  case  might 
be,  were  of  the  finer  types  of  negresses ;  for  he  notes 
remarkable  differences  among  the  slaves  procured  from 


PLANTATION   COOLIE  WOMAN   IN   MARTINIQUE   COSTUME." 


La  Fille  de  Couleur.  319 

different  coasts  and  various  tribes.  Still,  these  were 
rather  differences  of  ugliness  than  aught  else :  they  were 
all  repulsive ; — only  some  were  more  repulsive  than  oth- 
ers.* Granting  that  the  first  mothers  of  mulattoes  in 
the  colony  were  the  superior  rather  than  the  inferior 
physical  types, — which  would  be  a  perfectly  natural  sup- 
position,— still  we  find  their  offspring  worthy  in  his  eyes 
of  no  higher  sentiment  than  pity.  He  writes  in  his  chap- 
ter entitled  uDe  la  naissance  honteuse  des  mulastres": — 

— "  They  have  something  of  their  Father  and  some- 
thing of  their  Mother, — in  the  same  wise  that  Mules  par- 
take of  the  qualities  of  the  creatures  that  engendered 
them :  for  they  are  neither  all  white,  like  the  French ; 
nor  all  black,  like  the  Negroes,  but  have  a  livid  tint, 
which  comes  of  both." .  .  . 

To-day,  however,  the  traveller  would  look  in  vain  for 
a  livid  tint  among  the  descendants  of  those  thus  de- 
scribed :  in  less  than  two  centuries  and  a  half  the  physi- 
cal characteristics  of  the  race  have  been  totally  changed. 
What  most  surprises  is  the  rapidity  of  the  transforma- 
tion. After  the  time  of  Pere  Labat,  Europeans  never 
could  "have  mistaken  little  negro  children  for  monkeys." 
Nature  had  begun  to  remodel  the  white,  the  black,  and 
half-breed  according  to  environment  and  climate:  the 
descendant  of  the  early  colonists  ceased  to  resemble  his 
fathers ;  the  Creole  negro  improved  upon  his  progeni- 


*  It  is  quite  possible,  however,  that  the  slaves  of  Dutertre's  time 
belonged  for  the  most  part  to  the  uglier  African  tribes;  and  that  later 
supplies  may  have  been  procured  from  other  parts  of  the  slave  coast. 
Writing  half  a  century  later,  Pere  Labat  declares  having  seen  freshly 
disembarked  blacks  handsome  enough  to  inspire  an  artist: — "  J'en  ai 
vu  des  deux  sexes  faits  a  peindre,  et  beaux  par  merveille  "  (vol.  iv. , 
chap.  vii.).  He  adds  that  their  skin  was  extremely  fine,  and  of  vel- 
vety softness; — "/<?  velours  nest  pas  plus  doux.".  .  .  Among  the 
30,000  blacks  yearly  shipped  to  the  French  colonies,  there  were 
doubtless  many  representatives  of  the  finer  African  races. 


320 


Martinique  Sketches. 


tors;*  the  mulatto  began  to  give  evidence  of  those  qual- 
ities of  physical  and  mental  power  which  were  after- 
wards to  render  him  dangerous  to  the  integrity  of  the 
colony  itself.  In  a  temperate  climate  such  a  change 
would  have  been  so  gradual  as  to  escape  observation 

for  a  long  period ; — in 
the  tropics  it  was  effect- 
ed with  a  quickness  that 
astounds  by  its  revela- 
tion of  the  natural  forces 
at  work. 

— "  Under  the  sun  of 
the  tropics,"  writes  Dr. 
Rufz,  of  Martinique, 
"the  African  race,  as 
well  as  the  European, 
becomes  greatly  mbdi- 
fied  in  its  reproduction. 
Either  race  gives  birth 
to  a  totally  new  being. 
The  Creole  African 
came  into  existence  as 
did  the  Creole  white. 

And  just  as  the  offspring  of  Europeans  who  emigrated  to 
the  tropics  from  different  parts  of  France  displayed  char- 
acteristics so  identical  that  it  was  impossible  to  divine  the 
original  race-source,  —  so  likewise  the  Creole  negro  — 
whether  brought  into  being  by  the  heavy  thick-set  Congo, 
or  the  long  slender  black  of  Senegambia,  or  the  suppler 
and  more  active  Mandingo, — appeared  so  remodelled,  ho- 
mogeneous, and  adapted  in  such  wise  to  his  environment 
that  it  was  utterly  impossible  to  discern  in  his  features 
anything  of  his  parentage,  his  original  kindred,  his  origi- 


COOLIE    HALF-BREED. 


*  "  Leur  sueur  n'est  pas  fetide  comme  celle  des  negres  de  la  Gui- 
nee,"  writes  the  traveller  Dauxion-Lavaysse,  in  1813. 


La  Fille  de  Conleur. 


321 


nal  source.  .  .  .  The  transformation  is  absolute.  All  that 
can  be  asserted  is :  '  This  is  a  white  Creole ;  this  is  a 
black  Creole  ' ; — or,  '  This  is  a  European  white  ;  this  is 
an  African  black';  —  and  furthermore,  after  a  certain 
number  of  years  passed  in  the  tropics,  the  enervated  and 
discolored  aspect  of  the  European  may  create  uncertain- 
ty as  to  his  origin.  But  with  very  few  exceptions  the 
primitive  African,  or,  as  he  is  termed  here,  the  '  Coast 
Black  '  (le  noir  de  la  Cote\  can  be  recognized  at  once.  .  .  . 
..."  The  Creole  negro  is  gracefully  shaped,  finely 
proportioned :  his  limbs  are  lithe,  his  neck  long ; — his 
features  are  more  delicate,  his  lips  less  thick,  his  nose 
less  flattened,  than  those  of  the  African  ; — he  has  the 
Carib's  large  and  melan- 
choly eye,  better  adapted 
to  express  the  emotions. 
.  .  .  Rarely  can  you  dis- 
cover in  him  the  sombre 
fury  of  the  African,  rare- 
ly a  surly  and  savage 
mien  :  he  is  brave,  chat- 
ty, boastful.  His  skin 
has  not  the  same  tint  as 
his  father's, — it  has  be- 
come more  satiny;  his 
hair  remains  woolly,  but 
it  is  a  finer  wool ;  .  .  .  all 
his  outlines  are  more 
rounded ; — one  may  per- 
ceive that  the  cellular 
tissue  predominates,  as 
in  cultivated  plants,  of  which  the  ligneous  and  savage 
fibre  has  become  transformed."  .  .  .* 

*  Dr.  E.  Rufz:  "  Etudes  historiques  et  statistiques  sur  la  popula- 
tion de  la  Martinique."     St.  Pierre:  1850.     Vol.  i.,  pp.  148-50. 
It  has  been  generally  imagined  that  the  physical  constitution  of 


COUNTRY-GIRL — PURE  NEGRO 
RACE. 


322  Martinique  Sketches. 

This  new  and  comelier  black  race  naturally  won  from 
its  masters  a  more  sympathetic  attention  than  could 
have  been  vouchsafed  to  its  progenitors ;  and  the  con- 
sequences in  Martinique  and  elsewhere  seemed  to  have 
evoked  the  curious  Article  9  of  the  Code  Noir  of  1665, — 
enacting,  first,  that  free  men  who  should  have  one  or 
two  children  by  slave  women,  as  well  as  the  slave-owners 
permitting  the  same,  should  be  each  condemned  to  pay 
two  thousand  pounds  of  sugar;  secondly,  that  if  the 
violator  of  the  ordinance  should  be  himself  the  owner  of 
the  mother  and  father  of  her  children,  the  mother  and  the 
children  should  be  confiscated  for  the  profit  of  the  Hos- 
pital, and  deprived  for  their  lives  of  the  right  to  enfran- 
chisement. An  exception,  however,  was  made  to  the 
effect  that  if  the  father  were  unmarried  at  the  period 
of  his  concubinage,  he  could  escape  the  provisions  of 
the  penalty  by  marrying,  "  according  to  the  rites  of  the 
Church,"  the  female  slave,  who  would  thereby  be  en- 
franchised, and  her  children  "rendered  free  and  legiti- 
mate." Probably  the  legislators  did  not  imagine  that 
the  first  portion  of  the  article  could  prove  inefficacious, 
or  that  any  violator  of  the  ordinance  would  seek  to  es- 


the  black  race  was  proof  against  the  deadly  climate  of  the  West  In- 
dies. The  truth  is  that  the  freshly  imported  Africans  died  of  fever 
by  thousands  and  tens-of-thousands  ; — the  creole-negro  race,  now  so 
prolific,  represents  only  the  fittest  survivors  in  the  long  and  terrible 
struggle  of  the  slave  element  to  adapt  itself  to  the  new  environment. 
Thirty  thousand  negroes  a  year  were  long  needed  to  supply  the 
French  colonies.  Between  1700  and  1789  no  less  than  900,000 
slaves  were  imported  by  San  Domingo  alone  ; — yet  there  were  less 
than  half  that  number  left  in  1789.  (See  Placide  Justin's  history  of 
Santo  Domingo,  p.  147.)  The  entire  slave  population  of  Barbadoes 
had  to  be  renewed  every  sixteen  years,  according  to  estimates  :  the 
loss  to  planters  by  deaths  of  slaves  (reckoning  the  value  of  a  slave 
at  only  ^20  sterling)  during  the  same  period  was  ;£i, 600,000 
($8,000,000).  (Burck's  "  History  of  European  Colonies,"  vol.  ii., 
p.  141;  French  edition  of  1767.) 


La  Fille  de  Couleur.  323 

cape  the  penalty  by  those  means  offered  in  the  pro- 
vision. The  facts,  however,  proved  the  reverse.  Mis- 
cegenation continued;  and  Labat  notices  two  cases  of 
marriage  between  whites  and  blacks, — describing  the 
offspring  of  one  union  as  "  very  handsome  little  mulat- 
toes."  These  legitimate  unions  were  certainly  excep- 
tional,— one  of  them  was  dissolved  by  the  ridicule  cast 
upon  the  father; — but  illegitimate  unions  would  seem 
to  have  become  common  within  a  very  brief  time  after 
the  passage  of  the  law.  At  a  later  day  they  were  to 
become  customary.  The  Article  9  was  evidently  at 
fault;  and  in  March,  1724,  the  Black  Code  was  rein- 
forced by  a  new  ordinance,  of  which  the  sixth  provision 
prohibited  marriage  as  well  as  concubinage  between  the 
races. 

It  appears  to  have  had  no  more  effect  than  the  previ- 
ous law,  even  in  Martinique,  where  the  state  of  public 
morals  was  better  than  in  Santo  Domingo.  The  slave 
race  had  begun  to  exercise  an  influence  never  antici- 
pated by  legislators.  Scarcely  a  century  had  elapsed 
since  the  colonization  of  the  island ;  but  in  that  time 
climate  and  civilization  had  transfigured  the  black  wom- 
an. "After  one  or  two  generations,"  writes  the  histori- 
an Rufz,  "  the  Africaine,  reformed,  refined,  beautified  in 
her  descendants,  transformed  into  the  Creole  negress, 
commenced  to  exert  a  fascination  irresistible,  capable  of 
winning  anything  (capable  de  tout  obtenir)"*  Travellers 
of  the  eighteenth  century  were  confounded  by  the  luxury 
of  dress  and  of  jewellery  displayed  by  swarthy  beau- 
ties in  St.  Pierre.  It  was  a  public  scandal  to  European 
eyes.  But  the  Creole  negress  or  mulattress,  beginning  to 
understand  her  power,  sought  for  higher  favors  and  privi- 
leges than  silken  robes  and  necklaces  of  gold  beads : 
she  sought  to  obtain,  not  merely  liberty  for  herself,  but 

*  Rufz:  "Etudes,"  vol.  i.,  p.  236. 


324  Martinique  Sketches. 

for  her  parents,  brothers,  sisters, — even  friends.  What 
successes  she  achieved  in  this  regard  may  be  imagined 
from  the  serious  statement  of  Creole  historians  that  if 
human  nature  had  been  left  untrammelled  to  follow  its 
better  impulses,  slavery  would  have  ceased  to  exist  a 
century  before  the  actual  period  of  emancipation  !  By 
1738,  when  the  white  population  had  reached  its  maxi- 
mum (15,000),*  and  colonial  luxury  had  arrived  at  its 
greatest  height,  the  question  of  voluntary  enfranchise- 
ment was  becoming  very  grave.  So  omnipotent  the 
charm  of  half-breed  beauty  that  masters  were  becoming 
the  slaves  of  their  slaves.  It  was  not  only  the  Creole 
negress  who  had  appeared  to  play  a  part  in  this  strange 
drama  which  was  the  triumph  of  nature  over  interest 
and  judgment :  her  daughters,  far  more  beautiful,  had 
grown  up  to  aid  her,  and  to  form  a  special  class.  These 
women,  whose  tints  of  skin  rivalled  the  colors  of  ripe 
fruit,  and  whose  gracefulness — peculiar,  exotic,  and  irre- 
sistible— made  them  formidable  rivals  to  the  daughters  of 
the  dominant  race,  were  no  doubt  physically  superior 
to  the  modern  fllles-de-couleur.  They  were  results  of 
a  natural  selection  which  could  have  taken  place  in  no 
community  otherwise  constituted ; — the  offspring  of  the 
union  between  the  finer  types  of  both  races.  But  that 
which  only  slavery  could  have  rendered  possible  began 
to  endanger  the  integrity  of  slavery  itself :  the  institu- 
tions upon  which  the  whole  social  structure  rested  were 
being  steadily  sapped  by  the  influence  of  half-breed  girls. 
Some  new,  severe,  extreme  policy  was  evidently  neces- 
sary to  avert  the  already  visible  peril.  Special  laws 
were  passed  by  the  Home-Government  to  check  en- 
franchisement, to  limit  its  reasons  or  motives ;  and  the 
power  of  the  slave  woman  was  so  well  comprehended 
by  the  Metropole  that  an  extraordinary  enactment  was 

*  I  am  assured  it  has  now  fallen  to  a  figure  not  exceeding  5000- 


La  Fille  de  Couleur.  325 

made  against  it.  It  was  decreed  that  whosoever  should 
free  a  woman  of  color  would  have  to  pay  to  the  Govern- 
ment three  times  her  value  as  a  slave  / 

Thus  heavily  weighted,  emancipation  advanced  much 
more  slowly  than  before,  but  it  still  continued  to  a 
considerable  extent.  The  poorer  creole  planter  or  mer- 
chant might  find  it  impossible  to  obey  the  impulse  of 
his  conscience  or  of  his  affection,  but  among  the  richer 
classes  pecuniary  considerations  could  scarcely  affect 
enfranchisement.  The  country  had  grown  wealthy;  and 
although  the  acquisition  of  wealth  may  not  evoke  gener- 
osity in  particular  natures,  the  enrichment  of  a  whole 
class  develops  pre-existing  tendencies  to  kindness,  and 
opens  new  ways  for  its  exercise.  Later  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  when  hospitality  had  been  cultivated  as 
a  gentleman's  duty  to  fantastical  extremes, — when  lib- 
erality was  the  rule  throughout  society, — when  a  notary 
summoned  to  draw  up  a  deed,  or  a  priest  invited  to  cele- 
brate a  marriage,  might  receive  for  fee  five  thousand 
francs  in  gold, — there  were  certainly  many  emancipa- 
tions. ..."  Even  though  interest  and  public  opinion  in 
the  colonies,"  says  a  historian,*  "were  adverse  to  en- 
franchisement, the  private  feeling  of  each  man  com- 
bated that  opinion ; — Nature  resumed  her  sway  in  the 
secret  places  of  hearts ; — and  as  local  custom  permit- 
ted a  sort  of  polygamy,  the  rich  man  naturally  felt  him- 
self bound  in  honor  to  secure  the  freedom  of  his  own 
blood.  ...  It  was  not  a  rare  thing  to  see  legitimate 
wives  taking  care  of  the  natural  children  of  their  hus- 
bands,— becoming  their  godmothers  (s'en  faire  les  mar- 
raines)"  .  .  .  Nature  seemed  to  laugh  all  these  laws  to 
scorn,  and  the  prejudices  of  race !  In  vain  did  the  wis- 
dom of  legislators  attempt  to  render  the  condition  of  the 
enfranchised  more  humble, — enacting  extravagant  penal- 

*  Rufz:  "  Etudes,"  vol.  ii.,  pp.  311,  312. 


326  Martinique  Sketches. 

ties  for  the  blow  by  which  a  mulatto  might  avenge  the  in- 
sult of  a  white, — prohibiting  the  freed  from  wearing  the 
same  dress  as  their  former  masters  or  mistresses  wore ; — 
"  the  belles  affranchies  found,  in  a  costume  whereof  the 
negligence  seemed  a  very  inspiration  of  voluptuousness, 
means  of  evading  that  social  inferiority  which  the  law 
sought  to  impose  upon  them  : — they  began  to  inspire  the 
most  violent  jealousies."* 

III. 

WHAT  the  legislators  of  1685  and  1724  endeavored  to 
correct  did  not  greatly  improve  with  the  abolition  of 
slavery,  nor  yet  with  those  political  troubles  which  so- 
cially deranged  colonial  life.  The  fille-de-couleur,  inher- 
iting the  charm  of  the  belle  affranchie,  continued  to 
exert  a  similar  influence,  and  to  fulfil  an  almost  similar 
destiny.  The  latitude  of  morals  persisted, — though  with 
less  ostentation  :  it  has  latterly  contracted  under  the 
pressure  of  necessity  rather  than  through  any  other  in- 
fluences. Certain  ethical  principles  thought  essential 
to  social  integrity  elsewhere  have  always  been  largely 
relaxed  in  the  tropics ;  and — excepting,  perhaps,  Santo 
Domingo — the  moral  standard  in  Martinique  was  not 
higher  than  in  the  other  French  colonies.  Outward  de- 
corum might  be  to  some  degree  maintained ;  but  there 
was  no  great  restraint  of  any  sort  upon  private  lives :  it 
was  not  uncommon  for  a  rich  man  to  have  many  "  nat- 
ural "  families ;  and  almost  every  individual  of  means 
had  children  of  color.  The  superficial  character  of 
race  prejudices  was  everywhere  manifested  by  unions, 
which  although  never  mentioned  in  polite  converse,  were 
none  the  less  universally  known;  and  the  "irresistible 
fascination  "  of  the  half-breed  gave  the  open  lie  to  pre- 

*  Rufz:  "  Etudes,"  vol.  i.,  p.  237. 


La  Fille  de  Couleur.  327 

tended  hate.  Nature,  in  the  guise  of  the  belle  affranchie, 
had  mocked  at  slave  codes; — in  the fille-de-couleur  she 
still  laughed  at  race  pretensions,  and  ridiculed  the  fable 
of  physical  degradation.  To-day  the  situation  has  not 
greatly  changed ;  and  with  such  examples  on  the  part  of 
the  cultivated  race,  what  could  be  expected  from  the 
other?  Marriages  are  rare; — it  has  been  officially  stated 
that  the  illegitimate  births  are  sixty  per  cent.;  but  sev- 
enty-five to  eighty  per  cent,  would  probably  be  nearer 
the  truth.  It  is  very  common  to  see  in  the  local  papers 
such  announcements  as  :  Enfants  legitimes,  i  (one  birth 
announced);  enfants  naturels,  25. 

In  speaking  of  the  fille-de-couleur  it  is  necessary  also 
to  speak  of  the  extraordinary  social  stratification  of  the 
community  to  which  she  belongs.  The  official  state- 
ment of  20,000  "colored"  to  the  total  population  of 
between  173,000  and  174,000  (in  which  the  number 
of  pure  whites  is  said  to  have  fallen  as  low  as  5,000) 
does  not  at  all  indicate  the  real  proportion  of  mixed 
blood.  Only  a  small  element  of  unmixed  African  de- 
scent really  exists ;  yet  when  a  white  Creole  speaks  of 
the  gens-de-couleur  he  certainly  means  nothing  darker  than 
a  mulatto  skin.  Race  classifications  have  been  locally 
made  by  sentiments  of  political  origin  :  at  least  four  or 
five  shades  of  visible  color  are  classed  as  negro.  There 
is,  however,  some  natural  truth  at  the  bottom  of  this 
classification :  where  African  blood  predominates,  the 
sympathies  are  likely  to  be  African ;  and  the  turning- 
point  is  reached  only  in  the  true  mulatto,  where,  allow- 
ing the  proportions  of  mixed  blood  to  be  nearly  equal, 
the  white  would  have  the  dominant  influence  in  situa- 
tions more  natural  than  existing  politics.  And  in  speak- 
ing of  the  filles-de-couleur,  the  local  reference  is  always 
to  women  in  whom  the  predominant  element  is  white : 
a  white  Creole,  as  a  general  rule,  deigns  only  thus  to 
distinguish  those  who  are  nearly  white, — more  usually 


328  Martinique  Sketches. 

he  refers  to  the  whole  class  as  mulattresses.  Those 
women  whom  wealth  and  education  have  placed  in  a 
social  position  parallel  with  that  of  the  daughters  of  cre- 
ole  whites  are  in  some  cases  allowed  to  pass  for  white, — 
or  at  the  very  worst,  are  only  referred  to  in  a  whisper 
as  being  de  cotileur.  (Needless  to  say,  these  are  totally 
beyond  the  range  of  the  present  considerations  :  there  is 
nothing  to  be  further  said  of  them  except  that  they  can 
be  classed  with  the  most  attractive  and  refined  wom- 
en of  the  entire  tropical  world.)  As  there  is  an  almost 
infinite  gradation  from  the  true  black  up  to  the  brightest 
sang-mele,  it  is  impossible  to  establish  any  color-classifica- 
tion recognizable  by  the  eye  alone  ;  and  whatever  lines 
of  demarcation  can  be  drawn  between  castes  must  be 
social  rather  than  ethnical.  In  this  sense  we  may  ac- 
cept the  local  Creole  definition  of  fille-de-couleur  as  signi- 
fying, not  so  much  a  daughter  of  the  race  of  visible  color, 
as  the  half-breed  girl  destined  from  her  birth  to  a  career 
like  that  of  the  belle  affranchie  of  the  old  regime ;— for 
the  moral  cruelties  of  slavery  have  survived  emancipa- 
tion. 

Physically,  the  typical  fille-de-coulcur  may  certainly  be 
classed,  as  white  Creole  writers  have  not  hesitated  to 
class  her,  with  the  "  most  beautiful  women  of  the  human 
race."*  She  has  inherited  not  only  the  finer  bodily  char- 
acteristics of  either  parent  race,  but  a  something  else  be- 
longing originally  to  neither,  and  created  by  special  cli- 
matic and  physical  conditions, — a  grace,  a  suppleness  of 
form,  a  delicacy  of  extremities  (so  that  all  the  lines  de- 
scribed by  the  bending  of  limbs  or  fingers  are  parts  of 


*  La  race  de  sang-mete,  issue  des  blancs  et  des  noirs,  est  e'mine- 
ment  civilizable.  Comme  types  physiques,  elle  fournit  dans  beaucoup 
d'individus,  dans  ses  femmes  en  ge'ne'ral,  les  plus  beaux  specimens  de 
la  race  humaine. — "  Le  Prejuge  de  Race  aux  Antilles  Francaises." 
Par  G.  Souquet-Basiege.  St.  Pierre,  Martinique:  1883.  pp.  661-62. 


La  Fille  de  Couleur.  329 

clean  curves),  a  satiny  smoothness  and  fruit-tint  of  skin, — 
solely  West  Indian.  .  .  .  Morally,  of  course,  it  is  much 
more  difficult  to  describe  her ;  and  whatever  may  safely  be 
said  refers  rather  to  the  fille-de-coufeur  of  the  past  than 
of  the  present  half-century.  The  race  is  now  in  a  period 
of  transition :  public  education  and  political  changes  are 
modifying  the  type,  and  it  is  impossible  to  guess  the  ul- 
timate consequence,  because  it  is  impossible  to  safely 
predict  what  new  influences  may  yet  be  brought  to  affect 
its  social  development.  Before  the  present  era  of  colo- 
nial decadence,  the  character  of  the  fille-de-couleur  was 
not  what  it  is  now.  Even  when  totally  uneducated,  she 
had  a  peculiar  charm, — that  charm  of  childishness  which 
has  power  to  win  sympathy  from  the  rudest  natures. 
One  could  not  but  feel  attracted  towards  this  naif  being, 
docile  as  an  infant,  and  as  easily  pleased  or  as  easily 
pained, — artless  in  her  goodnesses  as  in  her  faults,  to 
all  outward  appearance ; — willing  to  give  her  youth,  her 
beauty,  her  caresses  to  some  one  in  exchange  for  the 
promise  to  love  her, — perhaps  also  to  care  for  a  mother, 
or  a  younger  brother.  Her  astonishing  capacity  for  be- 
ing delighted  with  trifles,  her  pretty  vanities  and  pretty 
follies,  her  sudden  veerings  of  mood  from  laughter  to 
tears, — like  the  sudden  rainbursts  and  sunbursts  of  her 
own  passiqnate  climate  :  these  touched,  drew,  won,  and 
tyrannized.  Yet  such  easily  created  joys  and  pains  did 
not  really  indicate  any  deep  reserve  of  feeling :  rather  a 
superficial  sensitiveness  only, — like  the  zhebe-m'amise,  or 
zhebe-manmzelle,  whose  leaves  close  at  the  touch  of  a  hair. 
Such  human  manifestations,  nevertheless,  are  apt  to  at- 
tract more  in  proportion  as  they  are  more  visible, —  in 
proportion  as  the  soul-current,  being  less  profound,  flows 
more  audibly.  But  no  hasty  observation  could  have  re- 
vealed the  whole  character  of  the  fille-de-couleur  to  the 
stranger,  equally  charmed  and  surprised  :  the  Creole  com- 
prehended her  better,  and  probably  treated  her  with  even 


330  Martinique  Sketches. 

more  real  kindness.  The  truth  was  that  centuries  of  dep- 
rivation of  natural  rights  and  hopes  had  given  to  her 
race— itself  fathered  by  passion  unrestrained  and  moth- 
ered by  subjection  unlimited — an  inherent  scepticism  in 
the  duration  of  love,  and  a  marvellous  capacity  for  ac- 
cepting the  destiny  of  abandonment  as  one  accepts  the 
natural  and  the  inevitable.  And  that  desire  to  please — 
which  in  the  fille-de-couleur  seemed  to  prevail  above  all 
other  motives  of  action  (maternal  affection  excepted) — 
could  have  appeared  absolutely  natural  only  to  those 
who  never  reflected  that  even  sentiment  had  been  arti- 
ficially cultivated  by  slavery, 

She  asked  for  so  little, —  accepted  a  gift  with  such 
childish  pleasure, — submitted  so  unresistingly  to  the  will 
of  the  man  who  promised  to  love  her.  She  bore  him 
children— such  beautiful  children ! — whom  he  rarely  ac- 
knowledged, and  was  never  asked  to  legitimatize ; — and 
she  did  not  ask  perpetual  affection  notwithstanding,— 
regarded  the  relation  as  a  necessarily  temporary  one,  to 
be  sooner  or  later  dissolved  by  the  marriage  of  her  chil- 
dren's father.  If  deceived  in  all  things, — if  absolutely 
ill-treated  and  left  destitute,  she  did  not  lose  faith  in  hu- 
man nature  :  she  seemed  a  born  optimist,  believing  most 
men  good ; — she  would  make  a  home  for  another  and 
serve  him  better  than  any  slave.  .  .  .  "Nee  de  T  amour," 
says  a  Creole  writer,  "  la  fille-de-couleur  vit  d"  amour,  de 
rires,  et  d'oublis"  *  .  .  . 

*  Turiault :  "Etude  sur  le  langage  Creole  de  la  Martinique." 
Brest:  1874.  ...  On  page  136  he  cites  the  following  pretty  verses 
in  speaking  of  the  fille-de-couleur: — 

L1  Amour  prit  soin  de  la  former 

Tendre,  nai've,  et  caressante, 

Faite  pour  plaire,  encore  plus  pour  aimer, 

Portant  tous  les  traits  precieux 

Du  caractere  d'une  amante, 

Le  plaisir  sur  sa  bouche  et  1'amour  dans  ses  yeux. 


CAPRESSE. 


La  Fille  de  Couleur.  331 

Then  came  the  general  colonial  crash !  .  .  .You  cannot 
see  its  results  without  feeling  touched  by  them.  Every- 
where the  weird  beauty,  the  immense  melancholy  of 
tropic  ruin.  Magnificent  terraces,  once  golden  with  cane, 
now  abandoned  to  weeds  and  serpents ; — deserted  plan- 
tation-homes, with  trees  rooted  in  the  apartments  and 
pushing  up  through  the  place  of  the  roofs ; — grass-grown 
alleys  ravined  by  rains ; — fruit-trees  strangled  by  lianas  ;— 
here  and  there  the  stem  of  some  splendid  palmiste,  bru- 
tally decapitated,  naked  as  a  mast: — petty  frail  growths 
of  banana-trees  or  of  bamboo  slowly  taking  the  place  of 
century-old  forest  giants  destroyed  to  make  charcoal. 
But  beauty  enough  remains  to  tell  what  the  sensual  par- 
adise of  the  old  days  must  have  been,  when  sugar  was 
selling  at  52. 

And  the  fille-de-couleur  has  also  changed.  She  is  much 
less  humble  and  submissive, — sontewhat  more  exacting  : 
she  comprehends  better  the  moral  injustice  of  her  posi- 
tion. The  almost  extreme  physical  refinement  and  del- 
icacy, bequeathed  to  her  by  the  freedwomen  of  the  old 
regime,  are  passing  away :  like  a  conservatory  plant  de- 
prived of  its  shelter,  she  is  returning  to  a  more  primitive 
condition,— hardening  and  growing  perhaps  less  comely 
as  well  as  less  helpless.  She  perceives  also  in  a  vague 
way  the  peril  of  her  race :  the  Creole  white,  her  lover 
and  protector,  is  emigrating; — the  domination  of  the 
black  becomes  more  and  more  probable.  Furthermore, 
with  the  continual  increase  of  the  difficulty  of  living,  and 
the  growing  pressure  of  population,  social  cruelties  and 
hatreds  have  been  developed  such  as  her  ancestors  never 
knew.  She  is  still  loved ;  but  it  is  alleged  that  she  rarely 
loves  the  white,  no  matter  how  large  the  sacrifices  made 
for  her  sake,  and  she  no  longer  enjoys  that  reputation  of 
fidelity  accorded  to  her  class  in  other  years.  Probably 
the  truth  is  that  the  fille-de-couleur  never  had  at  any 
time  capacity  to  bestow  that  quality  of  affection  imag- 
26 


33 2  Martinique  Sketches. 

ined  or  exacted  as  a  right.  Her  moral  side  is  still 
half  savage :  her  feelings  are  still  those  of  a  child.  If 
she  does  not  love  the  white  man  according  to  his  un- 
reasonable desire,  it  is  certain  at  least  that  she  loves 
him  as  well  as  he  deserves.  Her  alleged  demoralization 
is  more  apparent  than  real ; — she  is  changing  from  an 
artificial  to  a  very  natural  being,  and  revealing  more  and 
more  in  her  sufferings  the  true  character  of  the  luxuri- 
ous social  condition  that  brought  her  into  existence. 
As  a  general  rule,  even  while  questioning  her  fidelity, 
the  Creole  freely  confesses  her  kindness  of  heart,  and 
grants  her  capable  of  extreme  generosity  and  devoted- 
ness  to  strangers  or  to  children  whom  she  has  an  oppor- 
tunity to  care  for.  Indeed,  her  natural  kindness  is  so 
strikingly  in  contrast  with  the  harder  and  subtler  char- 
acter of  the  men  of  color  that  one  might  almost  feel 
tempted  to  doubt  if  she  belong  to  the  same  race.  Said 
a  creole  once,  in  my  hearing  : — "  The  gens-de-couleur  are 
just  like  the  tourlouroux:*  one  must  pick  out  the  females 
and  leave  the  males  alone."  Although  perhaps  capable 
of  a  double  meaning,  his  words  were  not  lightly  uttered ; — 
he  referred  to  the  curious  but  indubitable  fact  that  the 
character  of  the  colored  woman  appears  in  many  respects 
far  superior  to  that  of  the  colored  man.  In  order  to  un- 
derstand this,  one  must  bear  in  mind  the  difference  in 
the  colonial  history  of  both  sexes ;  and  a  citation  from 
General  Romanet,t  who  visited  Martinique  at  the  end  of 
the  last  century,  offers  a  clue  to  the  mystery.  Speaking 
of  the  tax  upon  enfranchisement,  he  writes  : — 

— "  The  governor  appointed  by  the  sovereign  delivers 
the  certificates  of  liberty, — on  payment  by  the  master  of 


*  A  sort  of  land-crab  ; — the  female  is  selected  for  food,  and,  prop- 
erly cooked,  makes  a  delicious  dish; — the  male  is  almost  worthless. 

f  "  Voyage  a  la  Martinique."  Par  J.  R.,  General  de  Brigade. 
Paris:  An.  XII.,  1804.  Page  106. 


La  Fille  de  Couleur.  333 

a  sum  usually  equivalent  to  the  value  of  the  subject. 
Public  interest  frequently  justifies  him  in  making  the 
price  of  the  slave  proportionate  to  the  desire  or  the  in- 
terest manifested  by  the  master.  It  can  be  readily  un- 
derstood that  the  tax  upon  the  liberty  of  the  women 
ought  to  be  higher  than  that  of  the  men  :  the  latter 
unfortunates  having  no  greater  advantage  than  that  of 
being  useful;  —  the  former  know  how  to  please:  they 
have  those  rights  and  privileges  which  the  whole  world 
allows  to  their  sex;  they  know  how  to  make  even  the 
fetters  of  slavery  serve  them  for  adornments.  They  may 
be  seen  placing  upon  -their  proud  tyrants  the  same  chains 
worn  by  themselves,  and  making  them  kiss  the  marks 
left  thereby:  the  master  becomes  the  slave,  and  pur- 
chases another's  liberty  only  to  lose  his  own." 

Long  before  the  time  of  General  Romanet,  the  colored 
male  slave  might  win  liberty  as  the  guerdon  of  bravery 
in  fighting  against  foreign  invasion,  or  might  purchase  it 
by  extraordinary  economy,  while  working  as  a  mechanic 
on  extra  time  for  his  own  account  (he  always  refused  to 
labor  with  negroes) ;  but  in  either  case  his  success  de- 
pended upon  the  possession  and  exercise  of  qualities  the 
reverse  of  amiable.  On  the  other  hand,  the  bondwoman 
won  manumission  chiefly  through  her  power  to  excite  af- 
fection. In  the  survival  and  perpetuation  of  the  fittest 
of  both  sexes  these  widely  different  characteristics  would 
obtain  more  and  more  definition  with  successive  genera- 
tions. 

I  find  in  the  "  Bulletin  des  Actes  Administratifs  de  la 
Martinique"  for  1831  (No.  41)  a  list  of  slaves  to  whom 
liberty  was  accorded  pour  services  rendus  a  leurs  maitres. 
Out  of  the  sixty-nine  enfranchisements  recorded  under 
this  head,  there  are  only  two  names  of  male  adults  to  be 
found, — one  an  old  man  of  sixty; — the  other,  called  Lau' 
rencin,  the  betrayer  of  a  conspiracy.  The  rest  are  young 
girls,  or  young  mothers  and  children;  —  plenty  of  those 


334  Martinique  Sketches. 

singular  and  pretty  names  in  vogue  among  the  Creole 
population, —  Acelie,  Avrillette,  Melie,  Robertine,  Celi- 
anne,  Francillette,  Adee,  Catharinette,  Sidollie,  Celine, 
Coraline  ; — and  the  ages  given  are  from  sixteen  to  twen- 
ty-one, with  few  exceptions.  Yet  these  liberties  were 
asked  for  and  granted  at  a  time  when  Louis  Philippe  had 
abolished  the  tax  on  manumissions.  .  .  .  The  same  "  Bul- 
letin "  contains  a  list  of  liberties  granted  to  colored  men, 
pour  service  accompli  dans  la  milice,  only  ! 

Most  of  the  French  West  Indian  writers  whose  works 
I  was  able  to  obtain  and  examine  speak  severely  of  the 
hommes-de-couleur  as  a  class, — in  some  instances  the  his- 
torian writes  with  a  very  violence  of  hatred.  As  far  back 
as  the  commencement  of  the  eighteenth  century,  Labat, 
who,  with  all  his  personal  oddities,  was  undoubtedly  a 
fine  judge  of  men,  declared  : — "  The  mulattoes  are  as  a 
general  rule  well  made,  of  good  stature,  vigorous,  strong, 
adroit,  industrious,  and  daring  (hardis)  beyond  all  con- 
ception. They  have  much  vivacity,  but  are  given  to 
their  pleasures,  fickle,  proud,  deceitful  (caches],  wicked, 
and  capable  of  the  greatest  crimes."  A  San  Domingo 
historian,  far  more  prejudiced  than  Pere  Labat,  speaks 
of  them  "  as  physically  superior,  though  morally  inferior 
to  the  whites " :  he  wrote  at  a  time  when  the  race  had 
given  to  the  world  the  two  best  swordsmen  it  has  yet 
perhaps  seen, — Saint-Georges  and  Jean-Louis. 

Commenting  on  the  judgment  of  Pere  Labat,  the  his- 
torian Borde  observes  : — "  The  wickedness  spoken  of  by 
Pere  Labat  doubtless  relates  to  their  political  passions 
only ;  for  the  women  of  color  are,  beyond  any  question, 
the  best  and  sweetest  persons  in  the  world — a  coup  stir, 
les  meilleures  et  les  plus  douces  personnes  qu'il  y  ait  au 
mon<te."  —  ("Histoire  de  1'Ile  de  la  Trinidad,"  par  M. 
Pierre  Gustave  Louis  Borde,  vol.  i.,  p.  222.)  The  same 
author,  speaking  of  their  goodness  of  heart,  generosity 
to  strangers  and  the  sick,  says  "they  are  born  Sisters 


La  Fille  de  Couleur.  335 

of  Charity"; — and  he  is  not  the  only  historian  who  has 
expressed  such  admiration  of  their  moral  qualities. 
What  I  myself  saw  during  the  epidemic  of  1887-88  at 
Martinique  convinced  me  that  these  eulogies  of  the 
women  of  color  are  not  extravagant.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  existing  Creole  opinion  of  the  men  of  color  is  much 
less  favorable  than  even  that  expressed  by  Pere  Labat. 
Political  events  and  passions  have,  perhaps,  rendered  a 
just  estimate  of  their  qualities  difficult.  The  history 
of  the  hommes-de-couleur  in  all  the  French  colonies  has 
been  the  same ; — distrusted  by  the  whites,  who  feared 
their  aspirations  to  social  equality,  distrusted  even  more 
by  the  blacks  (who  still  hate  them  secretly,  although 
ruled  by  them),  the  mulattoes  became  an  Ishmaelitish 
clan,  inimical  to  both  races,  and  dreaded  of  both.  In 
Martinique  it  was  attempted,  with  some  success,  to  man- 
age them  by  according  freedom  to  all  who  would  serve 
in  the  militia  for  a  certain  period  with  credit.  At  no 
time  was  it  found  possible  to  compel  them  to  work  with 
blacks ;  and  they  formed  the  whole  class  of  skilled  city 
workmen  and  mechanics  for  a  century  prior  to  emanci- 
pation. 

.  .  .  To-day  it  cannot  b5  truly  said  of  \h&  fille-de-couleur 
that  her  existence  is  made  up  of  "  love,  laughter,  and 
forgettings."  She  has  aims  in  life, — the  bettering  of  her 
condition,  the  higher  education  of  her  children,  whom  she 
hopes  to  free  from  the  curse  of  prejudice.  She  still  clings 
to  the  white,  because  through  him  she  may  hope  to  im- 
prove her  position.  Under  other  conditions  she  might 
even  hope  to  effect  some  sort  of  reconciliation  between 
the  races.  But  the  gulf  has  become  so  much  widened 
within  the  last  forty  years,  that  no  rapprochement  now  ap- 
pears possible ;  and  it  is  perhaps  too  late  even  to  restore 
the  lost  prosperity  of  the  colony  by  any  legislative  or 
commercial  reforms.  The  universal  Creole  belief  is  sum- 
med up  in  the  daily-repeated  cry  :  "C'est  un  pays  perdu  /" 


336 


Martinique  Sketches. 


Yearly  the  number  of  failures  increase ;  and  more  whites 
emigrate ; — and  with  every  bankruptcy  or  departure  some 
fille-de-couleur  is  left  almost  destitute,  to  begin  life  over 
again.  Many  a  one  has  been  rich  and  poor  several  times 
in  succession ; — one  day  her  property  is  seized  for  debt ; — 
perhaps  on  the  morrow  she  finds  some  one  able  and  will- 
ing to  give  her  a  home  again.  .  .  .  Whatever  comes,  she 
does  not  die  for  grief,  this  daughter  of  the  sun :  she  pours 
out  her  pain  in  song,  like  a  bird.  Here  is  one  of  her  lit- 
tle improvisations, — a  song  very  popular  in  both  Marti- 
nique and  Guadeloupe,  though  originally  composed  in 
the  latter  colony : — 


— "Good-bye  Madras! 

Good-bye  foulard  ! 

Good-bye  pretty  calicoes  ! 

Good-bye  collier-choux ! 

That  ship 

Which  is  there  on  the  buoy, 

It  is  taking 

My  doudoux  away. 


— "Adieu  Madras! 
Adieu  foulard! 
Adieu  dezinde ! 
Adieu  collier-choux  ! 
Batiment-la 
Qui  sou  laboue-la, 
Li  ka  mennein 
Doudoux-a-moin  alle. 


— "Very  good-day, 

Monsieur  the  Consignee. 

I  come 

To  make  one  little  petition. 

My  doudoux 

Is  going  away. 

Alas  !   I  pray  you 

Delay  his  going." 


— "  Bien  le-bonjou', 
Missie  le  Consignataire. 
Moin  ka  vini 
Fai  yon  ti  petition  ; 
Uoudoux-a-moin 
Y  ka  pati, — » 
T'enprie,  helas ! 
Retade  li." 


[He  answers  kindly  in  French:  the 
gentle  children.] 


— "  My  dear  child, 
It  is  too  late. 
The  bills  of  lading 
Are  already  signed ; 
The  ship 

Is  already  on  the  buoy. 
In  an  hour  from  now 
They  will  be  getting   her 
[under  way." 


are  always  kind  to  these 


— "  Ma  chere  enfant 
II  est  trop  tard, 
Les  connaissements 
Sont  deja  signes, 
Le  batiment 
Est  deja  sur  la  bouee; 
Dans  une  heure  d^i, 
Us  vont  appareiller." 


La  Fille  de  Couleur. 


337 


— "When  the  foulards  came.  .  .  . 

I  always  had  some ; 

When  the  Madras-kerchiefs. came, 

I  always  had  some ; 

When  the  printed  calicoes  came, 

I  always  had  some. 

.  .  .  That  second  officer 

Is  such  a  kind  man  ! 

"  Everybody  has 

Somebody  to  love ; 

Everybody  has 

Somebody  to  pet; 

Every  body  has 

A  sweetheart  of  her  own. 

I  am  the  only  one 

Who  cannot  have  that, — I  !" 


— "  Foulard  rive, 
Moin  te  toujou  tini ; 
Madras  rive, 
Moin  te  toujou  tini ; 
De'zindes  rive, 
Moin  te  toujou  tini. 
— Capitaine  sougonde 
C'est  yon  bon  gacon ! 

"Toutt  moune  tini 
Yon  moune  yo  aime ; 
Toutt  moune  tini 
Yon  moune  yo  cheri ; 
Toutt  moune  tini 
Yon  doudoux  a  yo. 
Jusse  moin  tou  sele 
Pa  tini  9a, — moin  !" 


.  .  .  On  the  eve  of  the  Fete  Dieu,  or  Corpus  Christ!  fes- 
tival, in  all  these  Catholic  countries,  the  city  streets  are 
hung  with  banners  and  decorated  with  festoons  and  with 
palm  branches ;  and  great  altars  are  erected  at  various 
points  along  the  route  of  the  procession,  to  serve  as  rest- 
ing-places for  the  Host.  These  are  called  reposoirs ;  in 
Creole  pators,  " reposoul  Bon-Die"  Each  wealthy  man 
lends  something  to  help  to  make  them  attractive, — rich 
plate,  dainty  crystal,  bronzes,  paintings,  beautiful  models 
of  ships  or  steamers,  curiosities  from  remote  parts  of  the 
world.  .  .  .  The  procession  over,  the  altar  is  stripped,  the 
valuables  are  returned  to  their  owners :  all  the  splendor 
disappears.  .  .  .  And  the  spectacle  of  that  evanescent 
magnificence,  repeated  year  by  year,  suggested  to  this 
proverb-loving  people  a  similitude  for  the  unstable  fort- 
une of  the  fille-de-couleur  : — Fortune  milatresse  C'est  repo- 
soue  Bon- Die.  (The  luck  of  the  mulattress  is  the  resting- 
place  of  the  Good-God). 


BETE-NI-PIE. 

i. 

ST.  PIERRE  is  in  one  respect  fortunate  beyond  many 
tropical  cities; — she  has  scarcely  any  mosquitoes,  al- 
though there  are  plenty  of  mosquitoes  in  other  parts  of 
Martinique,  even  in  the  higher  mountain  villages.  The 
flood  of  bright  water  that  pours  perpetually  through  all 
her  streets,  renders  her  comparatively  free  from  the 
pest; — nobody  sleeps  under  a  mosquito  bar. 

Nevertheless,  St.  Pierre  is  not  exempt  from  other  pe- 
culiar plagues  of  tropical  life  •  and  you  cannot  be  too 
careful  about  examining  your  bed  before  venturing  to  lie 
down,  and  your  clothing  before  you  dress ; — for  various 
disagreeable  things  might  be  hiding  in  them :  a  spider 
large  as  a  big  crab,  or  a  scorpion  or  a  mabouya  or  a 
centipede, — or  certain  large  ants  whose  bite  burns  like 
the  pricking  of  a  red-hot  needle.  No  one  who  has  lived 
in  St.  Pierre  is  likely  to  forget  the  ants.  .  .  .  There  are 
three  or  four  kinds  in  every  house; — the  fourmi fou  (mad 
ant),  a  little  speckled  yellowish  creature  whose  move- 
ments are  so  rapid  as  to  delude  the  vision  ;  the  great 
black  ant  which  allows  itself  to  be  killed  before  it  lets 
go  what  it  has  bitten ;  the  venomous  little  red  ant,  which 
is  almost  too  small  to  see;  and  the  small  black  ant  which 
does  not  bite  at  all, — are  usually  omnipresent,  and  ap- 
pear to  dwell  together  in  harmony.  They  are  pests  in 
kitchens,  cupboards,  and  safes ;  but  they  are  scavengers. 
It  is  marvellous  to  see  them  carrying  away  the  body  of 
a  great  dead  roach  or  centipede, — pulling  and  pushing 


Bete-ni-Pit.  339 

together  like  trained  laborers,  and  guiding  the  corpse 
over  obstacles  or  around  them  with  extraordinary  skill. 
.  .  .  There  was  a  time  when  ants  almost  destroyed  the 
colony, — in  1751.  The  plantations,  devastated  by  them 
are  described  by  historians  as  having  looked  as  if  deso- 
lated by  fire.  Underneath  the  ground  in  certain  places, 
layers  of  their  eggs  two  inches  deep  were  found  extend- 
ing over  acres.  Infants  left  unwatched  in  the  cradle  for 
a  few  hours  were  devoured  alive  by  them.  Immense 
balls  of  living  ants  were  washed  ashore  at  the  same  time 
on  various  parts  of  the  coast  (a  phenomenon  repeated 
within  the  memory  of  Creoles  now  living  in  the  north- 
east parishes).  The  Government  vainly  offered  rewards 
for  the  best  means  of  destroying  the  insects ;  but  the 
plague  gradually  disappeared  as  it  came. 

None  of  these  creatures  can  be  prevented  from  enter- 
ing a  dwelling ; — you  may  as  well  resign  yourself  to  the 
certainty  of  meeting  with  them  from  time  to  time.  The 
great  spiders  (with  the  exception  of  those  which  are 
hairy)  need  excite  no  alarm  or  disgust ; — indeed  they 
are  suffered  to  live  unmolested  in  many  houses,  partly 
owing  to  a  belief  that  they  bring  good-luck,  and  partly 
because  they  destroy  multitudes  of  those  enormous  and 
noisome  roaches  which  spoil  whatever  they  cannot  eat. 
The  scorpion  is  less  common ;  but  it  has  a  detestable 
habit  of  lurking  under  beds ;  and  its  bite  communicates 
a  burning  fever.  With  far  less  reason,  the  mabouya  is 
almost  equally  feared.  It  is  a  little  lizard  about  six 
inches  long,  and  ashen-colored ; — it  haunts  only  the  in- 
terior of  houses,  while  the  bright-green  lizards  dwell  only 
upon  the  roofs.  Like  other  reptiles  of  the  same  order, 
the  mabouya  can  run  over  or  cling  to  polished  surfaces ; 
and  there  is  a  popular  belief  that  if  frightened,  it  will 
leap  at  one's  face  or  hands  and  there  fasten  itself  so 
tightly  that  it  cannot  be  dislodged  except  by  cutting  it 
to  pieces.  Moreover,  its  feet  are  supposed  to  have  the 


34O  Martinique  Sketches. 

power  of  leaving  certain  livid  and  ineffaceable  marks 
upon  the  skin  of  the  person  to  whom  it  attaches  it- 
self : — fa  ka  ba  on  lota,  say  the  colored  people.  Never- 
theless, there  is  no  creature  more  timid  and  harmless 
than  the  mabouya. 

But  the  most  dreaded  and  the  most  insolent  invader 
of  domestic  peace  is  the  centipede.  The  water  system 
of  the  city  banished  the  mosquito ;  but  it  introduced  the 
centipede  into  almost  every  dwelling.  St.  Pierre  has  a 
plague  of  centipedes.  All  the  covered  drains,  the  gut- 
ters, the  crevices  of  fountain-basins  and  bathing-basins, 
the  spaces  between  floor  and  ground,  shelter  centipedes. 
And  the  bete-a-mille-pattes  is  the  terror  of  the  barefooted 
population  : — scarcely  a  day  passes  that  some  child  or 
bonne  or  workman  is  not  bitten  by  the  creature. 

The  sight  of  a  full-grown  centipede  is  enough  to  affect 
a  strong  set  of  nerves.  Ten  to  eleven  inches  is  the  aver- 
age length  of  adults ;  but  extraordinary  individuals  much 
exceeding  this  dimension  may  be  sometimes  observed  in 
the  neighborhood  of  distilleries  (rhommeries)  and  sugar- 
refineries.  According  to  age,  the  color  of  the  creature 
varies  from  yellowish  to  black ; — the  younger  ones  often 
have  several  different  tints ;  the  old  ones  are  uniformly 
jet-black,  and  have  a  carapace  of  surprising  toughness,— 
difficult  to  break.  If  you  tread,  by  accident  or  design, 
upon  the  tail,  the  poisonous  head  will  instantly  curl  back 
and  bite  the  foot  through  any  ordinary  thickness  of  up- 
per-leather. 

As  a  general  rule  the  centipede  lurks  about  the  court- 
yards, foundations,  and  drains  by  preference ;  but  in  the 
season  of  heavy  rains  he  does  not  hesitate  to  move  up- 
stairs, and  make  himself  at  home  in  parlors  and  bed- 
rooms. He  has  a  provoking  habit  of  nestling  in  your 
moresques  or  your  chinoises, — those  wide  light  garments 
you  put  on  before  taking  your  siesta  or  retiring  for  the 
night  He  also  likes  to  get  into  your  umbrella, — an  ar- 


Bete-ni-Pit.  341 

tide  indispensable  in  the  tropics ;  and  you  had  better 
never  open  it  carelessly.  He  may  even  take  a  notion  to 
curl  himself  up  in  your  hat,  suspended  on  the  wall — (I 
have  known  a  trigonocephalus  to  do  the  same  thing  in 
a  country-house).  He  has  also  a  singular  custom  of 
mounting  upon  the  long  trailing  dresses  (douillettes)  worn 
by  Martinique  women, — and  climbing  up  very  swiftly 
and  lightly  to  the  wearer's  neck,  where  the  prickling  of 
his  feet  first  betrays  his  presence.  Sometimes  he  will 
get  into  bed  with  you  and  bite  you,  because  you  have  not 
resolution  enough  to  lie  perfectly  still  while  he  is  tickling 
you.  ...  It  is  well  to  remember  before  dressing  that 
merely  shaking  a  garment  may  not  dislodge  him ; — you 
must  examine  every  part  very  patiently, — particularly  the 
sleeves  of  a  coat  and  the  legs  of  pantaloons. 

The  vitality  of  the  creature  is  amazing.  I  kept  one  in 
a  bottle  without  food  or  water  for  thirteen  weeks,  at  the 
end  of  which  time  it  remained  active  and  dangerous  as 
ever.  Then  I  fed  it  with  living  insects,  which  it  devoured 
ravenously;  —  beetles,  roaches,  earthworms,  several  k- 
pismce,  even  one  of  the  dangerous  -  looking  millepedes, 
which  have  a  great  .resemblance  in  outward  structure  to 
the  centipede,  but  a  thinner  body,  and  more  numerous 
limbs, — all  seemed  equally  palatable  to  the  prisoner.  .  .  . 
I  knew  an  instance  of  one,  nearly  a  foot  long,  remaining 
in  a  silk  parasol  for  more  than  four  months,  and  emerg- 
ing unexpectedly  one  day,  with  aggressiveness  undimin- 
ished,  to  bite  the  hand  that  had  involuntarily  given  it 
deliverance. 

In  the  city  the  centipede  has  but  one  natural  enemy 
able  to  cope  with  him, — the  hen !  The  hen  attacks  him 
with  delight,  and  often  swallows  him,  head  first,  without 
taking  the  trouble  to  kill  him.  The  cat  hunts  him,  but 
she  is  careful  never  to  put  her  head  near  him ; — she  has 
a  trick  of  whirling  him  round  and  round  upon  the  floor 
so  quickly  as  to  stupefy  him :  then,  when  she  sees  a 


342  Martinique  Sketches. 

good  chance,  she  strikes  him  dead  with  her  claws.  But 
if  you  are  fond  of  your  cat  you  will  let  her  run  no  risks, 
as  the  bite  of  a  large  centipede  might  have  very  bad  re- 
sults for  your  pet.  Its  quickness  of  movement  demands 
all  the  quickness  of  even  the  cat  for  self-defence.  ...  I 
know  of  men  who  have  proved  themselves  able  to  seize 
a  fer-de-lance  by  the  tail,  whirl  it  round  and  round,  and 
then  flip  it  as  you  would  crack  a  whip, — whereupon  the 
terrible  head  flies  off ;  but  I  never  heard  of  any  one  in 
Martinique  daring  to  handle  a  living  centipede. 

There  are  superstitions  concerning  the  creature  which 
have  a  good  effect  in  diminishing  his  tribe.  If  you  kill 
a  centipede,  you  are  sure  to  receive  money  soon ;  and 
even  if  you  dream  of  killing  one  it  is  good-luck.  Con- 
sequently, people  are  glad  of  any  chance  to  kill  centi- 
pedes,— usually  taking  a  heavy  stone  or  some  iron  uten- 
sil for  the  work ; — a  wooden  stick  is  not  a  good  weapon. 
There  is  always  a  little  excitement  when  a  bete-ni-pie  (as 
the  centipede  is  termed  in  the  patois)  exposes  itself  to 
death ;  and  you  may  often  hear  those  who  kill  it  uttering 
a  sort  of  litany  of  abuse  with  every  blow,  as  if  address- 
ing a  human  enemy: — "Quitte  mom  tchoue  ou,  maudi ! — 
quitte  main  tchoue  ou,  scelerat! — quitte  moin  tchoue  ou,  Sa- 
tan f — quitte  moin  tchoue  ou,  abonocio  /"  etc.  (Let  me  kill 
you,  accursed  !  scoundrel !  Satan  !  abomination  !) 

The  patois  term  for  the  centipede  is  not  a  mere  cor- 
ruption of  the  French  bete-a-mille-pattes.  Among  a  pop- 
ulation of  slaves,  unable  to  read  or  write,*  there  were 
only  the  vaguest  conceptions  of  numerical  values ;  and 
the  French  term  bete-a-mille-pattes  was  not  one  which 
could  appeal  to  negro  imagination.  The  slaves  them- 
selves invented  an  equally  vivid  name,  bete-anni-pie  (the 


*  According  to  the  Martinique  "Annuaire"  for  1887,  there  were 
even  then,  out  of  a  total  population  of  173,182,  no  less  than  125,366 
unable  to  read  and  write. 


Bete-ni-Pit.  343 

Beast- which-is-all-feet) ;  anni  in  Creole  signifying  "only," 
and  in  such  a  sense  "  all."  Abbreviated  by  subsequent 
usage  to  b$te-ni-pi&,$\Q  appellation  has  amphibology; — 
for  there  are  two  words  ni  in  the  patois,  one  signifying 
"to  have,"  and  the  other  "naked."  So  that  the  Creole 
for  a  centipede  might  be  translated  in  three  ways, — "  the 
Beast-which-is-all-feet";  or,  "the  Naked-footed  Beast"; 
or,  with  fine  irony  of  affirmation,  "  the  Beast-which-has- 
feet." 

II. 

WHAT  is  the  secret  of  that  horror  inspired  by  the  cen- 
tipede ?  ...  It  is  but  very  faintly  related  to  our  knowl- 
edge that  the  creature  is  venomous ; — the  results  of  the 
bite  are  only  temporary  swelling  and  a  brief  fever ; — it 
is  less  to  be  feared  than  the  bite  of  other  tropical  insects 
and  reptiles  which  never  inspire  the  same  loathing  by 
their  aspect.  And  the  shapes  of  venomous  creatures  are 
not  always  shapes  of  ugliness.  The  serpent  has  ele- 
gance of  form  as  well  as  attractions  of  metallic  tint- 
ing;—  the  tarantula,  or  the  matoutou-falaise,  have  geo- 
metrical beauty.  Lapidaries  have  in  all  ages  expended 
rare  skill  upon  imitations  of  serpent  grace  in  gold  and 
gems ; — a  princess  would  not  scorn  to  wear  a  diamond 
spider.  But  what  art  could  utilize  successfully  the  form 
of  the  centipede  ?  It  is  a  form  of  absolute  repulsive- 
*ness, — a  skeleton-shape  half  defined  : — the  suggestion  of 
some  old  reptile-spine  astir,  crawling  with  its  fragments 
of  ribs. 

No  other  living  thing  excites  exactly  the  same  feeling 
produced  by  the  sight  of  the  centipede, — the  intense 
loathing  and  peculiar  fear.  The  instant  you  see  a  cen- 
tipede you  feel  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  kill  it ;  you 
cannot  find  peace  in  your  house  while  you  know  that 
such  a  life  exists  in  it :  perhaps  the  intrusion  of  a  ser- 
pent would  annoy  and  disgust  you  less.  And  it  is  not 


344  Martinique  Sketches. 

easy  to  explain  the  whole  reason  of  this  loathing.  The 
form  alone  has,  of  course,  something  to  do  with  it, — a 
form  that  seems  almost  a  departure  from  natural  laws. 
But  the  form  alone  does  not  produce  the  full  effect, 
which  is  only  experienced  when  you  see  the  creature 
in  motion.  The  true  horror  of  the  centipede,  perhaps, 
must  be  due  to  the  monstrosity  of  its  movement, — mul- 
tiple and  complex,  as  of  a  chain  of  pursuing  and  inter- 
devouring  lives  :  there  is  something  about  it  that  makes 
you  recoil,  as  from  a  sudden  corrupt  swarming-out.  It 
is  confusing, — a  series  of  contractings  and  lengthenings 
and  undulations  so  rapid  as  to  allow  of  being  only  half 
seen  :  it  alarms  also,  because  the  thing  seems  perpetu- 
ally about  to  disappear,  and  because  you  know  that  to 
lose  sight  of  it  for  one  moment  involves  the  very  un- 
pleasant chance  of  finding  it  upon  you  the  next, — per- 
haps "between  skin  and  clothing. 

But  this  is  not  all: — the  sensation  produced  by  the 
centipede  is  still  more  complex — complex,  in  fact,  as  the 
visible  organization  of  the  creature.  For,  during  pur- 
suit,— whether  retreating  or  attacking,  in  hiding  or  flee- 
ing,— it  displays  a  something  which  seems  more  than  in- 
stinct :  calculation  and  cunning, — a  sort  of  malevolent 
intelligence.  It  knows  how  to  delude,  how  to  terrify ; — 
it  has  marvellous  skill  in  feinting ; — it  is  an  abominable 
juggler 

III. 

I  AM  about  to  leave  my  room  after  breakfast,  when 
little  Victoire  who  carries  the  meals  up-stairs  in  a  wood- 
en tray,  screams  out : — "  Gade,  Missie  !  ni  bete-ni-pie  assous 
dos  ou!"  There  is  a  thousand  -  footed  beast  upon  my 
back ! 

Off  goes  my  coat,  which  I  throw  upon  the  floor ; — the 
little  servant,  who  has  a  nervous  horror  of  centipedes, 
climbs  upon  a  chair.  I  cannot  see  anything  upon  the 


Bete-ni-Pie.  345 

coat,  nevertheless  ; — I  lift  it  by  the  collar,  turn  it  about 
very  cautiously — nothing  !  Suddenly  the  child  screams 
again  ;  and  I  perceive  the  head  close  to  my  hand ; — the 
execrable  thing  had  been  hiding  in  a  perpendicular  fold 
of  the  coat,  which  I  drop  only  just  in  time  to  escape  get- 
ting bitten.  Immediately  the  centipede  becomes  invisi- 
ble. Then  I  take  the  coat  by  one  flap,  and  turn  it  over 
very  quickly :  just  as  quickly  does  the  centipede  pass 
over  it  in  the  inverse  direction,  and  disappear  under  it 
again.  I  have  had  my  first  good  look  at  him  :  he  seems 
nearly  a  foot  long, — has  a  greenish-yellow  hue  against 
the  black  cloth, — and  pink  legs,  and  a  violet  head  ; — he 
is  evidently  young.  ...  I  turn  the  coat  a  second  time  : 
same  disgusting  manoeuvre.  Undulations  of  livid  color 
flow  over  him  as  he  lengthens  and  shortens;  —  while 
running  his  shape  is  but  half  apparent;  it  is  only  as  he 
makes  a  half  pause  in  doubling  round  and  under  the 
coat  that  the  panic  of  his  legs  becomes  discernible. 
When  he  is  fully  exposed  they  move  with  invisible  ra- 
pidity,— like  a  vibration ; — you  can  see  only  a  sort  of 
pink  haze  extending  about  him, — something  to  which 
you  would  no  more  dare  advance  your  finger  than  to 
the  vapory  halo  edging  a  circular  saw  in  motion.  Twice 
more  I  turn  and  re-turn  the  coat  with  the  same  result ; — 
I  observe  that  the  centipede  always  runs  towards  my 
hand,  until  I  withdraw  it :  he  feints  ! 

With  a  stick  I  uplift  one  portion  of  the  coat  after 
another ;  and  suddenly  perceive  him  curved  under  a 
sleeve, — looking  quite  small ! — how  could  he  have  seem- 
ed so  large  a  moment  ago  ?  .  .  .  But  before  I  can  strike 
him  he  has  flickered  over  the  cloth  again,  and  vanished ; 
and  I  discover  that  he  has  the  power  of  magnifying  him- 
self,— dilating  the  disgust  of  his  shape  at  will :  he  inva- 
riably amplifies  himself  to  face  attack.  .  .  . 

It  seems  very  difficult  to  dislodge  him ;  he  displays 
astonishing  activity  and  cunning  at  finding  wrinkles  and 


346  Martinique  Sketches. 

folds  to  hide  in.  Even  at  the  risk  of  damaging  various 
things  in  the  pockets,  I  stamp  upon  the  coat ; — then  lift 
it  up  with  the  expectation  of  finding  the  creature  dead. 
But  it  suddenly  rushes  out  from  some  part  or  other, 
looking  larger  and  more  wicked  than  ever, —  drops  to 
the  floor,  and  charges  at  my  feet :  a  sortie !  I  strike  at 
him  unsuccessfully  with  the  stick :  he  retreats  to  the  an- 
gle between  wainscoting  and  floor,  and  runs  along  it  fast 
as  a  railroad  train, — dodges  two  or  three  pokes, — gains 
the  door-frame, — glides  behind  a  hinge,  and  commences 
to  run  over  the  wall  of  the  stair-way.  There  the  hand  of 
a  black  servant  slaps  him  dead. 

— "  Always  strike  at  the  head,"  the  servant  tells  me ; 
"  never  tread  on  the  tail.  .  .  .  This  is  a  small  one  :  the 
big  fellows  can  make  you  afraid  if  you  do  not  know  how 
to  kill  them." 

...  I  pick  up  the  carcass  with  a  pair  of  scissors.  It 
does  not  look  formidable  now  that  it  is  all  contracted ; — 
it  is  scarcely  eight  inches  long, — thin  as  card-board,  and 
even  less  heavy.  It  has  no  substantiality,  no  weight ; — 
it  is  a  mere  appearance,  a  mask,  a  delusion.  .  .  .  But 
remembering  the  spectral,  cunning,  juggling  something 
which  magnified  and  moved  it  but  a  moment  ago, — I 
feel  almost  tempted  to  believe,  with  certain  savages,  that 
there  are  animal  shapes  inhabited  by  goblins.  .  .  . 


IV. 

— "  Is  there  anything  still  living  and  lurking  in  old 
black  drains  of  Thought, — any  bigotry,  any  prejudice, 
anything  in  the  moral  world  whereunto  the  centipede 
may  be  likened  ?" 

— "  Really,  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  friend  to 
whom  I  had  put  the  question;  "but  you  need  only  go 
as  far  as  the  vegetable  world  for  a  likeness.  Did  you 
ever  see  anything  like  this  ?"  he  added,  opening  a  drawer 


Bete-ni-Pti.  347 

and  taking  therefrom  something  revolting,  which,  as  he 
pressed  it  in  his  hand,  looked  like  a  long  thick  bundle 
of  dried  centipedes. 

— "Touch  them,"  he  said,  holding  out  to  me  the 
mass  of  articulated  flat  bodies  and  bristling  legs. 

— "Not  for  anything!"  I  replied,  in  astonished  dis- 
gust. He  laughed,  and  opened  his  hand.  As  he  did 
so,  the  mass  expanded.  .  .  . 

— "  Now  look,"  he  exclaimed ! 

Then  I  saw  that  all  the  bodies  were  united  at  the  tails 
— grew  together  upon  one  thick  flat  annulated  stalk 
.  .  .  a  plant!  — "But  here  is  the  fruit,"  he  continued, 
taking  from  the  same  drawer  a  beautifully  embossed 
ovoid  nut,  large  as  a  duck's  egg,  ruddy-colored,  and  so 
exquisitely  varnished  by  nature  as  to  resemble  a  rose- 
wood carving  fresh  from  the  hands  of  the  cabinet-maker. 
In  its  proper  place  among  the  leaves  and  branches,  it 
had  the  appearance  of  something  delicious  being  de- 
voured by  a  multitude  of  centipedes.  Inside  was  a 
kernel,  hard  and  heavy  as  iron-wood ;  but  this  in  time,  I 
was  told,  falls  into  dust :  though  the  beautiful  shell  re- 
mains always  perfect. 

Negroes  call  it  the  coco-macaque. 


MA    BONNE. 

i. 

I  CANNOT  teach  Cyrillia  the  clock ; — I  have  tried  until 
both  of  us  had  our  patience  strained  to  the  breaking- 
point.  Cyrillia  still  believes  she  will  learn  how  to  tell 
the  time  some  day  or  other  ; — I  am  certain  that  she 
never  will.  "Missie"  she  says,  "ttzfik  pa  dien  pou  moin : 
c'est  minitt  kafoute  moin  yon  travail 7" — the  hours  do  not 
give  her  any  trouble;  but  the  minutes  are  a  frightful 
bore !  And  nevertheless,  Cyrillia  is  punctual  as  the 
sun ; — she  always  brings  my  coffee  and  a  slice  of  coros- 
sol  at  five  in  the  morning  precisely.  Her  clock  is  the 
cabritt-bois .  The  great  cricket  stops  singing,  she  says, 
at  half-past  four :  the  cessation  of  its  chant  awakens 
her 

— "Bonjoif,  Missie.      Coument   ou  passe   lanuittl"- 
" Thanks,  my  daughter,  I  slept  well."— "The  weather  is 
beautiful :  if  Missie  would  like  to  go  to  the  beach,  his 
bathing- towels    are    ready."  —  "Good!   Cyrillia;    I   will 
go." .  .  .  Such  is  our  regular  morning  conversation. 

Nobody  breakfasts  before  eleven  o'clock  or  there- 
about ;  but  after  an  early  sea-bath,  one  is  apt  to  feel  a 
little  hollow  during  the  morning,  unless  one  take  some 
sort  of  refreshment.  Cyrillia  always  prepares  something 
for  me  on  my  return  from  the  beach, — either  a  little  pot 
of  fresh  cocoa-water,  or  a  cocoyage,  or  a  mabiyage,  or  a 
bavaroise. 

The  cocoyage  I  like  the  best  of  all.  Cyrillia  takes  a 
green  cocoa-nut,  slices  off  one  side  of  it  so  as  to  open  a 


Ma  Bonne.  349 

hole,  then  pours  the  opalescent  water  into  a  bowl,  adds 
to  it  a  fresh  egg,  a  little  Holland  gin,  and  some  grated 
nutmeg  and  plenty  of  sugar.  Then  she  whips  up  the 
mixture  into  effervescence  with  her  baton -lele.  The 
baton -leti  is  an  indispensable  article  in  every  Creole 
home  :  it  is  a  thin  stick  which  is  cut  from  a  young 
tree  so  as  to  leave  at  one  end  a  whorl  of  branch- 
stumps  sticking  out  at  right  angles  like  spokes ;  —  by 
twirling  the  stem  between  the  hands,  the  stumps  whip 
up  the  drink  in  a  moment. 

The  mabiyage  is  less  agreeable,  but  is  a  popular  morn- 
ing drink  among  the  poorer  classes.  It  is  made  with  a 
little  white  rum  and  a  bottle  of  the  bitter  native  root- 
beer  called  mabi.  The  taste  of  mabi  I  can  only  describe 
as  that  of  molasses  and  water  flavored  with  a  little  cin- 
chona bark. 

The  bavaroiseis  fresh  milk,  sugar,  and  a  little  Holland 
gin  or  rum, — mixed  with  the  baton-lele  until  a  fine  thick 
foam  is  formed.  After  fhe  cocoyage,  I  think  it  is  the  best 
drink  one  can  take  in  the  morning ;  but  very  little  spirit 
must  be  used  for  any  of  these  mixtures.  It  is  not  until 
just  before  the  mid-day  meal  that  one  can  venture  to 
take  a  serious  stimulant, — yon  ti pouch, — rum  and  water, 
sweetened  with  plenty  of  sugar  or  sugar  syrup. 

The  word  sucre  is  rarely  used  in  Martinique, — consid- 
ering that  sugar  is  still  the  chief  product; — the  word 
doux,  "sweet,"  is  commonly  substituted  for  it.  Doux 
has,  however,  a  larger  range  of  meaning :  it  may  signify 
syrup,  or  any  sort  of  sweets, — duplicated  into  doudoux,  it 
means  the  corossole  fruit  as  well  as  a  sweetheart.  Qa 
qui  le  doudoux?  is  the  cry  of  the  corossole-seller.  If  a 
negro  asks  at  a  grocery  store  (graisserie)  for  sique  in- 
stead of  for  doux,  it  is  only  because  he  does  not  want  it 
to  be  supposed  that  he  means  syrup ; — as  a  general  rule, 
he  will  only  use  the  word  sique  when  referring  to  quality 
of  sugar  wanted,  or  to  sugar  in  hogsheads.  Doux  en- 


350  Martinique  Sketches. 

ters  into  domestic  consumption  in  quite  remarkable  ways. 
People  put  sugar  into  fresh  milk,  English  porter,  beer, 
and  cheap  wine  ; — they  cook  various  vegetables  with  sug- 
ar, such  as  peas  ;  they  seem  to  be  particularly  fond  of 
sugar- and -water  and  of  d'leau-pain,  —  bread-and-water 
boiled,  strained,  mixed  with  sugar,  and  flavored  with  cin- 
namon. The  stranger  gets  accustomed  to  all  this  sweet- 
ness without  evil  results.  In  a  northern  climate  the  con- 
sequence would  probably  be  at  least  a  bilious  attack  ; 
but  in  the  tropics,  where  salt  fish  and  fruits  are  popu- 
larly preferred  to  meat,  the  prodigal  use  of  sugar  or  sug- 
ar-syrups appears  to  be  decidedly  beneficial. 

.  . .  After  Cyrillia  has  prepared  my  cocoyage,  and  rinsed 
the  bathing-towels  in  fresh-water,  she  is  ready  to  go  to 
market,  and  wants  to  know  what  I  would  like  to  eat  for 
breakfast.  "Anything  creole,  Cyrillia; — I  want  to  know 
what  people  eat  in  this  country."  She  always  does  her 
best  to  please  me  in  this  respect, — almost  daily  intro- 
duces me  to  some  unfamiliar  dishes,  something  odd  in 
the  way  of  fruit  or  fish. 

II. 

CYRILLIA  has  given  me  a  good  idea  of  the  range  and 
character  of  mange-Creole;  and  I  can  venture  to  write 
something  about  it  after  a  year's  observation.  By  man- 
ge-Creole I  refer  only  to  the  food  of  the  people  proper, 
the  colored  population ;  for  the  cuisine  of  the  small  class 
of  wealthy  whites  is  chiefly  European,  and  devoid  of  lo- 
cal interest : — I  might  observe,  however,  that  the  fashion 
of  cooking  is  rather  Provencal  than  Parisian  ; — rather  of 
southern  than  of  northern  France. 

Meat,  whether  fresh  or  salt,  enters  little  into  the  nour- 
ishment of  the  poorer  classes.  This  is  partly,  no  doubt, 
because  of  the  cost  of  all  meats ;  but  it  is  also  due  to 
natural  preference  for  fruits  and  fish.  When  fresh  meat 
is  purchased,  it  is  usually  to  make  a  stew  or  daube ; — 


Ma  Bonne.  351 

probably  salt  meats  are  more  popular ;  and  native  vege- 
tables and  manioc  flour  are  preferred  to  bread.  There 
are  only  two  popular  soups  which  are  peculiar  to  the 
Creole  cuisine, — calalou,  a  gombo  soup,  almost  precisely 
similar  to  that  of  Louisiana  ;  and  the  soupe-d*  habitant,  or 
"country  soup."  It  is  made  of  yams,  carrots,  bananas, 
turnips,  choux-cara'ibes,  pumpkins,  salt  pork,  and  pimento, 
all  boiled  together ; — the  salt  meat  being  left  out  of  the 
composition  on  Fridays. 

The  great  staple,  the  true  meat  of  the  population, 
is  salt  codfish,  which  is  prepared  in  a  great  number  of 
ways.  The  most  popular  and  the  rudest  preparation  of 
it  is  called  "  Ferocious  "  (feroce) ;  and  it  is  not  at  all  un- 
palatable. The  codfish  is  simply  fried,  and  served  with 
vinegar,  oil,  pimento;  —  manioc  flour  and  avocados  be- 
ing considered  indispensable  adjuncts.  As  manioc  flour 
forms  a  part  of  almost  every  Creole  meal,  a  word  of  in- 
formation regarding  it  will  not  be  out  of  place  here. 

Everybody  who  has  heard  the  name  probably  knows 
that  the  manioc  root  is  naturally  poisonous,  and  that  the 
toxic  elements  must  be  removed  by  pressure  and  desic- 
cation before  the  flour  can  be  made.  Good  manioc  flour 
has  an  appearance  like  very  coarse  oatmeal ;  and  is  prob- 
ably quite  as  nourishing.  Even  when  dear  as  bread,  it 
is  preferred,  and  forms  the  flour  of  the  population,  by 
whom  the  word  farine  is  only  used  to  signify  manioc 
flour :  if  wheat-flour  be  referred  to  it  is  always  qualified 
as  "  French  flour  "  {farine-Fouance}.  Although  certain 
flours  are  regularly  advertised  as  American  in  the  local 
papers,  they  are  still  farine-Fouance  for  the  population, 
who  call  everything  foreign  French.  American  beer  is 
bie-Fouance ;  American  canned  peas,  ti-pois-Fouance ;  any 
white  foreigner  who  can  talk  French  is  yon  beke-Fouance. 

Usually  the  manioc  flour  is  eaten  uncooked  :*  merely 

*  There  is  record  of  an  attempt  to  manufacture  bread  with  one 


352  Martinique  Sketches. 

poured  into  a  plate,  with  a  little  water  and  stirred  with  a 
spoon  into  a  thick  paste  or  mush, — the  thicker  the  bet- 
ter;— dleau  passe  farine  (more  water  than  manioc  flour)  is 
a  saying  which  describes  the  condition  of  a  very  destitute 
person.  When  not  served  with  fish,  the  flour  is  occasion- 
ally mixed  with  water  and  refined  molasses  (sirop-battrie) : 
this  preparation,  which  is  very  nice,  is  called  cousscaye. 
There  is  also  a  way  of  boiling  it  with  molasses  and  milk 
into  a  kind  of  pudding.  This  is  called  matete ;  children 
are  very  fond  of  it.  Both  of  these  names,  cousscaye  and 
matete,  are  alleged  to  be  of  Carib  origin :  the  art  of  pre- 
paring the  flour  itself  from  manioc  root  is  certainly  an  in- 
heritance from  the  Caribs,who  bequeathed  many  singular 
words  to  the  Creole  patois  of  the  French  West  Indies. 

Of  all  the  preparations  of  codfish  with  which  manioc 
flour  is  eaten,  I  preferred  the  lamori-bouilli, — the  fish 
boiled  plain,  after  having  been  steeped  long  enough  to 
remove  the  excess  of  salt ;  and  then  served  with  plenty 
of  olive-oil  and  pimento.  The  people  who  have  no  home 
of  their  own,  or  at  least  no  place  to  cook,  can  buy  their 
food  already  prepared  from  the  machannes  lapacotte,  who 
seem  to  make  a  specialty  of  macadam  (codfish  stewed 
with  rice)  and  the  other  two  dishes  already  referred  to. 
But  in  every  colored  family  there  are  occasional  feasts 
of  lamori-au-laitt,  codfish  stewed  with  milk  and  potatoes; 
lamori '-  au  -  grattin,  codfish  boned,  pounded  with  toast 
crumbs,  and  boiled  with  butter,  onions,  and  pepper  into 
a  mush;  —  coubouyon-lamori,  codfish  stewed  with  butter 
and  oil;  —  bachamelle,  codfish  boned  and  stewed  with 
potatoes,  pimentos,  oil,  garlic,  and  butter. 

Pimento  is  an  essential  accompaniment  to  all  these 
dishes,  whether  it  be  cooked  or  raw :  everything  is  served 
with  plenty  of  pimento, — en  pile,  en  pile  piment.  Among 

part  manioc  flour  to  three  of  wheat  flour.  The  result  was  excellent ; 
but  no  serious  effort  was  ever  made  to  put  the  manioc  bread  on  the 
market. 


Ma  Bonne. 


353 


the  various  kinds  I  can  mention  only  the  piment-cafe,  or 
"  coffee-pepper,"  larger  but  about  the  same  shape  as  a 
grain  of  Liberian  coffee,  violet-red  at  one  end ;  the  pi- 
ment-zoueseau,  or  bird-pepper,  small  and  long  and  scar- 
let ; — and  the  piment-capresse,  very  large,  pointed  at  one 
end,  and  bag-shaped  at  the  other.  It  takes  a  very  deep 
red  color  when  ripe,  and  is.  so  strong  that  if  you  only 
break  the  pod  in  a  room,  the  sharp  perfume  instantly 
fills  the  apartment.  Unless  you  are  as  well  trained  as 
any  Mexican  to  eat  pimento,  you  will  probably  regret 
your  first  encounter  with  the  capresse. 

Cyrillia  told  me  a  story  about  this  infernal  vegetable. 


III. 


ZHISTOUE   PIMENT. 


Te  ni  yon  manman  qui  te  ni  en 
pile,  en  pile  yche;  et  yon  jou  y  pa 
te  ni  ai'en  pou  y  te  haill  yche-la 
mange.  Y  te  ka  leve  bon  matin- 
la  sans  yon  sou :  y  pa  sa  9a  y  te 
done  fai, — la  y  te  ke  baill  latete. 
Y  alle  lacai'e  macoume-y,  raconte 
lapeine-y.  Macoume  baill  y  toua 
chopine  farine  -  manioc.  Y  alle 
lacaill  lautt  macoume,  qui  baill  y 
yon  grand  trai  piment.  Macou- 
nie-la  di  y  venne  trai-piment-a, 
epi  y  te  pe  achete  lamori, — pisse 
y  ja  te  ni  farine.  Madame-la  di ; 
"  Me9i,  macoume;" — y  di  y  bon- 
jou';  epi  y  alle  lacai'e-y. 


Lhe  y  rive  acai'e  y  lime  dif e :  y 
mette  canari  epi  dleau  assous  dife- 
a ;  epi  y  casse  toutt  piment-la  et 
mette  yo  adans  canari-a  assous 
dife. 


PIMENTO   STORY. 

There  was  once  a  mamma  who 
had  ever  so  many  children  ;  and 
one  day  she  had  nothing  to  give 
those  children  to  eat.  She  had 
got  up  very  early  that  morning, 
without  a  sou  in  the  world :  she 
did  not  know  what  to  do  :  she 
was  so  worried  that  her  head  was 
upset.  She  went  to  the  house  of 
a  woman -friend,  and  told  her 
about  her  trouble.  The  friend 
gave  her  three  chopines  [three 
pints]  of  manioc  flour.  Then  she 
went  to  the  house  of  another  fe- 
male friend,  who  gave  her  a  big 
trayful  of  pimentos.  The  friend 
told  her  to  sell  that  tray  of  pi- 
mentos :  then  she  could  buy  some 
codfish, — since  she  already  had 
some  manioc  flour.  The  good- 
wife  said:  "Thank  you,  macou- 
m£," — she  bid  her  good-day,  and 
then  went  to  her  own  house. 

The  moment  she  got  home,  she 
made  a  fire,  and  put  her  canari 
[earthen  pot]  full  of  water  on  the 
fire  to  boil :  then  she  broke  up  all 
the  pimentos  and  put  them  into 
the  canari  on  the  fire. 


354 


Martinique  Sketches. 


Lhe  y  oue  canari-a  ka  boui,  y 
pouend  baton-leti,  epi  y  lele  pi- 
ment-a:  aloss  y  ka  fai  yonne  cala- 
lou-piment.  Lhe  calalou-piment- 
la  te  tchouitt,  y  pouend  chaque 
zassiett  yehe-li ;  y  mette  calalou 
yo  fouete  dans'zassiett-la;  y  mette 
ta-mari  fouete,  assou,  epi  ta-y. 
Epi  Ihe  calalou -la  te  bien  fouete, 
y  mette  farine  nans  chaque  zassi- 
ett-la.  Epi  y  crie  toutt  moune 
vini  mange.  Toutt  moune  vini 
mette  yo  a-tabe. 

Pouemie  bouchee  mari-a  pou- 
end, y rete, — y  crie:  "Ai'e!  ouaill! 
mafenm  !"  Fenm-la  reponne 
mari  y:  "  Ouaill!  monmari!"  Ces 
ti  manmaille-la  crie:  "Ouaill! 
manman!"  Manman-a  repon- 
ne:— "  Ouaill !  yches-moin  !".  .  . 
Yo  toutt  pouend  couri,  quitte 
cai'e-la  sele, — epi  yo  toutt  tombe 
larivie  a  touempe  bouche  yo.  Ces 
ti  manmaille-la  boue  dleau  sitel- 
lement  jusse  temps  yo  toutt  neye : 
te  ka  rete  anni  manman-la  epi 
papa-la.  Yo  te  la,  bo  larivie,  qui 
te  ka  pleire.  Moin  te  ka  passe  a 
Ihe-a  ; — moin  ka  mande  yo  :  "  £a 
zautt  ni  ?" 

Nhomme-la  leve  :  y  baill  moin 
yon  sele  coup  d'pie,  y  voye  moin 
lautt  bo  larivie — ou  oue  moin  vini 
pou  conte  9a  ba  ou. 


As  soon  as  she  saw  the  canari 
boiling,  she  took  her  baton-lele\ 
and  beat  up  all  those  pimentos: 
then  she  made  a  pimento-calalou. 
When  the  pimento-calalou  was 
well  cooked,  she  took  each  one 
of  the  children's  plates,  and  pour- 
ed their  calalou  into  the  plates  to 
cool  it;  she  also  put  her  husband's 
out  to  cool,  and  her  own.  And 
when  the  calalou  was  quite  cool, 
she  put  some  manioc  flour  into 
each  of  the  plates.  Then  she 
called  to  everybody  to  come  and 
eat.  They  all  came,  and  sat 
down  to  table. 

The  first  mouthful  that  hus- 
band took  he  stopped  and  scream- 
ed : — "A'ie!  ouaill!  my  wife!" 
The  woman  answered  her  hus- 
band :  "  Ouaill!  my  husband!" 
The  little  children  all  screamed: 
' '  Ouaill !  mamma  !"  Their  mam- 
ma answered:  " 'Ouaill!  my  chil- 
dren!". .  .  They  all  ran  out,  left 
the  house  empty ;  and  they  tum- 
bled into  the  river  to  steep  their 
mouths.  Those  little  children 
just  drank  water  and  drank  water 
till  they  were  all  drowned:  there 
was  nobody  left  except  the  mam- 
ma and  the  papa.  They  stayed 
there  on  the  river-bank,  and  cried. 
I  was  passing  that  way  just  at 
that  time; — I  asked  them:  "  What 
ails  you  people?" 

That  man  got  up  and  gave  me 
just  one  kick  that  sent  me  right 
across  the  river  ;  I  came  here  at 
once,  as  you  see,  to  tell  you  all 
about  it.  ... 


IV. 

...  IT  is  no  use  for  me  to  attempt  anything  like  a  de- 
tailed description  of  the  fish  Cyrillia  brings  me  day  after 


Ma  Bonne.  355 

day  from  the  Place  du  Fort :  the  variety  seems  to  be  in- 
finite. I  have  learned,  however,  one  curious  fact  which 
is  worth  noting :  that,  as  a  general  rule,  the  more  beau- 
tifully colored  fish  are  the  least  palatable,  and  are 
sought  after  only  by  the  poor.  The  perroquet,  black,  with 
bright  bands  of  red  and  yellow;  the  cirurgien,  blue  and 
black  ;  the  patate,  yellow  and  black  ;  the  moringue,  which 
looks  like  polished  granite ;  the  souri,  pink  and  yellow ; 
the  vermilion  Goubs-zie ;  the  rosy  sade  ;  the  red  Bon-Die- 
manie-moin  ("  the-Good-God-handled-me  ") — it  has  two 
queer  marks  as  of  great  fingers ;  and  the  various  kinds 
of  all-blue  fish,  balaou,  conliou,  etc.,  varying  from  steel- 
color  to  violet, — these  are  seldom  seen  at  the  tables  of 
the  rich.  There  are  exceptions,  of  course,  to  this  and 
all  general  rules :  notably  the  couronne,  pink  spotted 
beautifully  with  black, — a  sort  of  Redfish,  which  never 
sells  less  than  fourteen  cents  a  pound  ;  and  the  zorphi, 
which  has  exquisite  changing  lights  of  nacreous  green 
and  purple.  It  is  said,  however,  that  the  zorphi  is  some- 
times poisonous,  like  the  becunne  ;  and  there  are  many 
fish  which,  although  not  venomous  by  nature,  have  al- 
ways been  considered  dangerous.  In  the  time  of  Pere 
Dutertre  it  was  believed  these  fish  ate  the  apples  of  the 
manchineel-tree,  washed  into  the  sea  by  rains ; — to-day 
it  is  popularly  supposed  that  they  are  rendered  occasion- 
ally poisonous  by  eating  the  barnacles  attached  to  cop- 
per-plating of  ships.  The  tazard,  the  lune,  the  capitaine, 
the  dorade,  the  perroquet,  the  couliou,  the  congre,  various 
crabs,  and  even  the  tonne,  —  all  are  dangerous  unless 
perfectly  fresh  :  the  least  decomposition  seems  to  de- 
velop a  mysterious  poison.  A  singular  phenomenon 
regarding  the  poisoning  occasionally  produced  by  the 
becunne  and  dorade  is  that  the  skin  peels  from  the 
hands  and  feet  of  those  lucky  enough  to  survive  the  ter- 
rible colibs,  burnings,  itchings,  and  delirium,  which  are 
early  symptoms.  Happily  these  accidents  are  very  rare, 


356  Martinique  Sketches. 

since  the  markets  have  been  properly  inspected :  in  the 
time  of  Dr.  Rufz,  they  would  seem  to  have  been  very 
common, — so  common  that  he  tells  us  he  would  not  eat 
fresh  fish  without  being  perfectly  certain  where  it  was 
caught  and  how  long  it  had  been  out  of  the  water. 

The  poor  buy  the  brightly  colored  fish  only  when  the 
finer  qualities  are  not  obtainable  at  low  rates ;  but  often 
and  often  the  catch  is  so  enormous  that  half  of  it  has  to 
be  thrown  back  into  the  sea.  In  the  hot  moist  air,  fish 
decomposes  very  rapidly ;  it  is  impossible  to  transport  it 
to  any  distance  into  the  interior ;  and  only  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  coast  can  indulge  in  fresh  fish, — at  least 
sea-fish. 

Naturally,  among  the  laboring  class  the  question  of 
quality  is  less  important  than  that  of  quantity  and  sub- 
stance, unless  the  fish  -  market  be  extraordinarily  well 
stocked.  Of  all  fresh  fish,  the  most  popular  is  the 
tonne,  a  great  blue-gray  creature  whose  flesh  is  solid  as 
beef;  next  come  in  order  of  preferment  the  flying-fish 
(volants),  which  often  sell  as  low  as  four  for  a  cent ; — 
then  the  Iambi,  or  sea-snail,  which  has  a  very  dense  and 
nutritious  flesh ; — then  the  small  whitish  fish  classed  as 
sadines ; — then  the  blue-colored  fishes  according  to  price, 
couliou,  balaou,  etc.; — lastly,  the  shark,  which  sells  com- 
monly at  two  cents  a  pound.  Large  sharks  are  not 
edible ;  the  flesh  is  too  hard ;  but  a  young  shark  is 
very  good  eating  indeed.  Cyrillia  cooked  me  a  slice 
one  morning :  it  was  quite  delicate,  tasted  almost  like 
veal. 

The  quantity  of  very  small  fish  sold  is  surprising. 
With  ten  sous  the  family  of  a  laborer  can  have  a  good 
fish-dinner :  a  pound  of  sadines  is  never  dearer  than 
two  sous ; — a  pint  of  manioc  flour  can  be  had  for  the 
same  price;  and  a  big  avocado  sells  for  a  sou.  This 
is  more  than  enough  food  for  any  one  person ;  and  by 
doubling  the  expense  one  obtains  a  proportionately 


Ma  Bonne.  357 

greater  quantity — enough  for  four  or  five  individuals. 
The  sadines  are  roasted  over  a  charcoal  fire,  and  flavored 
with  a  sauce  of  lemon,  pimento,  and  garlic.  When  there 
are  no  sadines,  there  are  sure  to  be  cautious  in  plenty, — 
small  coulious  about  as  long  as  your  little  finger :  these 
are  more  delicate,  and  fetch  double  the  price.  With 
four  sous'  worth  of  coulious  a  family  can  have  a  superb 
blaffe.  To  make  a  blaffe  the  fish  are  cooked  in  water, 
and  served  with  pimento,  lemon,  spices,  onions,  and  gar- 
lic ;  but  without  oil  or  butter.  Experience  has  demon- 
strated that  coulious  make  the  best  blaffe;  and  a  blaffe 
is  seldom  prepared  with  other  fish. 


V. 

THERE  are  four  dishes  which  are  the  holiday  luxuries 
of  the  poor  : — manicou,  ver-palmiste,  zandouille,  and  poule- 
epi-diri* 

The  manicou  is  a  brave  little  marsupial,  which  might 
be  called  the  opossum  of  Martinique :  it  fights,  although 
overmatched,  with  the  serpent,  and  is  a  great  enemy  to 
the  field -rat.  In  the  market  a  manicou  sells  for  two 
francs  and  a  half  at  cheapest :  it  is  generally  salted  be- 
fore being  cooked. 

The  great  worm,  or  caterpillar,  called  ver-palmiste  is 
found  in  the  heads  of  cabbage-palms, — especially  after 

*  I  must  mention  a  surreptitious  dish,  chatt; — needless  to  say  the 
cats  are  not  sold,  but  stolen.  It  is  true  that  only  a  small  class  of 
poor  people  eat  cats ;  but  they  eat  so  many  cats  that  cats  have  be- 
come quite  rare  in  St.  Pierre.  The  custom  is  purely  superstitious  : 
it  is  alleged  that  if  you  eat  cat  seven  times,  or  if  you  eat  seven  cats, 
no  witch,  wizard,  or  quimboiseur  can  ever  do  you  any  harm  ;  and 
the  cat  ought  to  be  eaten  on  Christmas  Eve  in  order  that  the  meal 
be  perfectly  efficacious.  .  .  .  The  mystic  number  "  seven  "  enters  into 
another  and  a  better  creole  superstition ; — if  you  kill  a  serpent, 
seven  great  sins  are  forgiven  to  you  :  ou  kt  ni  sept  grands  pfchts 
effac^ 


358  Martinique  Sketches. 

the  cabbage  has  been  cut  out,  and  the  tree  has  begun  to 
perish.  It  is  the  grub  of  a  curious  beetle,  which  has  a 
proboscis  of  such  form  as  suggested  the  Creole  appella- 
tion, lefant:  the  "elephant."  These  worms  are  sold  in 
the  Place  du  Fort  at  two  sous  each  :  they  are  spitted 
and  roasted  alive,  and  are  said  to  taste  like  almonds.  I 
have  never  tried  to  find  out  whether  this  be  fact  or  fan- 
cy ;  and  I  am  glad  to  say  that  few  white  Creoles  confess 
a  liking  for  this  barbarous  food. 

The  zandouilles  are  delicious  sausages  made  with  pig- 
buff, — and  only  seen  in  the  market  on  Sundays.  They 
cost  a  franc  and  a  half  each ;  and  there  are  several 
women  who  have  an  established  reputation  through- 
out Martinique  for  their  skill  in  making  them.  I  have 
tasted  some  not  less  palatable  than  the  famous  London 
"pork-pies."  Those  of  Lamentin  are  reputed  the  best 
in  the  island. 

¥>\&poule-tyi-diri\&  certainly  the  most  popular  dish  of 
all :  it  is  the  dearest,  as  well,  and  poor  people  can  rarely 
afford  It.  In  Louisiana  an  almost  similar  dish  is  called 
jimbalaya :  chicken  cooked  with  rice.  The  Martiniquais 
think  it  such  a  delicacy  that  an  over-exacting  person,  or 
one  difficult  to  satisfy,  is  reproved  with  the  simple  ques- 
tion:— "  Qa  ou  le  'neb— poule-epi-diri?"  (What  more  do 
you  want,  great  heavens  ! — chicken-and-rice  ?)  Naughty 
children  are  bribed  into  absolute  goodness  by  the  prom- 
ise of  poule-epi-diri : — 

— "Ate!  che,  bb  doudotix  ! 

Doudoux  ba  ou  poule-epi-diri; 
Ate!  che,  bb  doudoux!".  .  . 

(Ate,  dear !  kiss  doudoux  ! — dondoux  has  rice-and-chicken 
for  you  ! — ate,  dear  !  kiss  doudoux  /) 

How  far  rice  enters  into  the  success  of  the  dish  above 
mentioned  I  cannot  say ;  but  rice  ranks  in  favor  gener- 


Ma  'Bonne.  359 

ally  above  all  cereals;  it  is  at  least  six  times  more  in 
demand  than  maize.  Diri-doux,  rice  boiled  with  sugar, 
is  sold  in  prodigious  quantities  daily, — especially  at  the 
markets,  where  little  heaps  of  it,  rolled  in  pieces  of  bana- 
na or  cachibou  leaves,  are  retailed  at  a  cent  each.  Diri- 
aulaitt,  a  veritable  rice  -  pudding,  is  also  very  popular; 
but  it  would  weary  the  reader  to  mention  one-tenth  of 
the  Creole  preparations  into  which  rice  enters. 


VI. 

EVERYBODY  eats  akras ; — they  sell  at  a  cent  apiece. 
The  akra  is  a  small  fritter  or  pancake,  which  may  be 
made  of  fifty  different  things, —  among  others  codfish, 
titiri,  beans,  brains,  choux-cardibes^  little  black  peas 
(poix-zit-nout,  "  black-eyed  peas "),  or  of  crawfish  (akra- 
cribtche}.  When  made  of  carrots,  bananas,  chicken,  palm- 
cabbage,  etc.,  and  sweetened,  they  are  called  marinades. 
On  first  acquaintance  they  seem  rather  greasy  for  so  hot 
a  climate ;  but  one  learns,  on  becoming  accustomed  to 
tropical  conditions,  that  a  certain  amount  of  oily  or 
greasy  food  is  both  healthy  and  needful. 

First  among  popular  vegetables  are  beans.  Red  beans 
are  preferred ;  but  boiled  white  beans,  served  cold  with 
vinegar  and  plenty  of  oil,  form  a  favorite  salad.  Next 
in  order  of  preferment  come  the  choux-cara'ibes ,  patates, 
zignames,  camanioc,  and  cousscouche:  all  immense  roots, — 
the  true  potatoes  of  the  tropics.  The  camanioc  is  finer 
than  the  choux-caraibe,  boils  whiter  and  softer :  in  ap- 
pearance it  resembles  the  manioc  root  very  closely,  but 
has  no  toxic  element.  The  cousscouche  is  the  best  of 
all :  the  finest  Irish  potato  boiled  into  sparkling  flour  is 
not  so  good.  Most  of  these  roots  can  be  cooked  into  a 
sort  of  mush,  called  migan :  such  as  migan-choux,  made 
with  the  choux-caraibe  ;  migan-zignames,  made  with  yams ; 
migan-cousscouche,  etc., — in  which  case  crabs  or  shrimps 


360  Martinique  Sketches. 

are  usually  served  with  the  migan.  There  is  a  particu- 
lar fondness  for  the  little  rosy  crab  called  tourlouroux, 
in  patois  touloulou.  Migan  is  also  made  with  bread-fruit. 
Very  large  bananas  or  plantains  are  boiled  with  codfish, 
with  daubes,  or  meat  stews,  and  with  eggs.  The  bread- 
fruit is  a  fair  substitute  for  vegetables.  It  must  be 
cooked  very  thoroughly,  and  has  a  dry  potato  taste. 
What  is  called  \\\& fleu-fouitt-h-pain,  or  "bread-fruit  flow- 
er"— a  long  pod-shaped  solid  growth,  covered  exteriorly 
with  tiny  seeds  closely  set  as  pin-heads  could  be,  and 
having  an  interior  pith  very  elastic  and  resistant, — is 
candied  into  a  delicious  sweetmeat. 


VII. 

THE  consumption  of  bananas  is  enormous :  more  ba- 
nanas are  eaten  than  vegetables  ;  and  more  banana-trees 
are  yearly  being  cultivated.  The  negro  seems  to  recog- 
nize instinctively  that  economical  value  of  the  banana 
to  which  attention  was  long  since  called  by  Humboldt, 
who  estimated  that  while  an  acre  planted  in  wheat  would 
barely  support  three  persons,  an  acre  planted  in  banana- 
trees  would  nourish  fifty. 

Bananas  and  plantains  hold  the  first  place  among  fruits 
in  popular  esteem ; — they  are  cooked  in  every  way,  and 
served  with  almost  every  sort  of  meat  or  fish.  What  we 
call  bananas  in  the  United  States,  however,  are  not  call- 
ed bananas  in  Martinique,  but  figs  (figues).  Plantains 
seem  to  be  called  bananes.  One  is  often  surprised  at 
popular  nomenclature  :  choux  may  mean  either  a  sort  of 
root  (choux-cardibe),  or  the  top  of  the  cabbage-palm  ;  Jac- 
quot  may  mean  a  fish  ;  cabane  never  means  a  cabin,  but 
a  bed ;  crickett  means  not  a  cricket,  but  a  frog ;  and  at 
least  fifty  other  words  have  equally  deceptive  uses.  If 
one  desires  to  speak  of  real  figs — dried  figs — he  must  say 
figues-Fouance  (French  figs) :  otherwise  nobody  will  un- 


Ma  Bonne.  361 

derstand  him.  There  are  many  kinds  of  bananas  here 
called  figues  ; — the  four  most  popular  are  fat  figues-bana- 
nes,  which  are  plantains,  I  think  ;  the  figues-makouenga, 
which  grow  wild,  and  have  a  red  skin  ;  the  figues-pommes 
(apple-bananas),  which  are  large  and  yellow;  and  the  ti- 
figues-desse  (little-dessert-bananas),  which  are  to  be  seen 
on  all  tables  in  St.  Pierre.  They  are  small,  sweet,  and 
always  agreeable,  even  when  one  has  no  appetite  for 
other  fruits. 

It  requires  some  little  time  to  become  accustomed  to 
many  tropical  fruits,  or  at  least  to  find  patience  as  well 
as  inclination  to  eat  them.  A  large  number,  in  spite  of 
delicious  flavor,  are  provokingly  stony :  such  as  the  ripe 
guavas,  the  cherries,  the  barbadines;  even  the  corrossole 
and  pomme-cannelle  are  little  more  than  huge  masses  of 
very  hard  seeds  Huried  in  pulp  of  exquisite  taste.  The 
sapota,  or  sapodilla,  is  less  characterized  by  stoniness, 
and  one  soon  learns  to  like  it.  It  has  large  flat  seeds, 
which  can  be  split  into  two  with  the  finger-nail ;  and  a 
fine  white  skin  lies  between  these  two  halves.  It  re- 
quires some  skill  to  remove  entire  this  little  skin,  or  pel 
licle,  without  breaking  it :  to  do  so  is  said  to  be  a  test  ci 
affection.  Perhaps  this  bit  of  folk-lore  was  suggested  by 
the  shape  of  the  pellicle,  which  is  that  of  a  heart.  The 
pretty  fille-de-couleur  asks  her  doudoux : — "Ess  ou  ain- 
mein  main  ? — pouloss  tirk  ti  lapeau-la  sans  casse-y"  Woe 
to  him  if  he  breaks  it ! ...  The  most  disagreeable  fruit  is, 
I  think,  fat pomme-d1  ffaiti,  or  Haytian  apple:  it  is  very 
attractive  exteriorly ;  but  has  a  strong  musky  odor  and 
taste  which  nauseates.  Few  white  Creoles  ever  eat  it. 

Of  the  oranges,  nothing  except  praise  can  be  said ; 
but  there  are  fruits  that  look  like  oranges,  and  are  not 
oranges,  that  are  far  more  noteworthy.  There  is  the 
chadeque,  which  grows  here  to  fully  three  feet  in  circum- 
ference, and  has  a  sweet  pink  pulp ;  and  there  is  the 
"  forbidden-fruit "  (fouitt-defendu),  a  sort  of  cross  between 
28 


362  Martinique  Sketches. 

the  orange  and  the  chadeque,  and  superior  to  both.  The 
colored  people  declare  that  this  monster  fruit  is  the  same 
which  grew  in  Eden  upon  the  fatal  tree  :  c'est  fa  menm 
quifai  moune  kafai yche  conm  fa  atouelement !  The  fouitt- 
defendu  is  wonderful,  indeed,  in  its  way ;  but  the  fruit 
which  most  surprised  me  on  my  first  acquaintance  with 
it  was  the  zabricbt. 

—"Ou  le  yon  zabricbt ?"  (Would  you  like  an  apricot?) 
Cyrillia  asked  me  one  day.  I  replied  that  I  liked  apri- 
cots very  much, — wanted  more  than  one.  Cyrillia  looked 
astonished,  but  said  nothing  until  she  returned  from  mar- 
ket, and  put  on  the  table  two  apricots,  with  the  observa- 
tion : — "Qa  ke  fai  ou  malade  mange  toutt  fa  /"  (You  will 
get  sick  if  you  eat  all  that.)  I  could  not  eat  even  half 
of  one  of  them.  Imagine  a  plum  larger  than  the  largest 
turnip,  with  a  skin  like  a  russet  appSjfc.solid  sweet  flesh 
of  a  carrot-red  color,  and  a  nut  in  the  middle  bigger  than 
a  duck's  egg  and  hard  as  a  rock.  These  fruits  are  aro- 
matic as  well  as  sweet  to  the  taste  :  the  price  varies  from 
one  to  four  cents  each,  according  to  size.  The  tree  is 
indigenous  to  the  West  Indies ;  the  aborigines  of  Hayti 
had  a  strange  belief  regarding  it.  They  alleged  that  its 
fruits  formed  the  nourishment  of  the  dead ;  and  however 
pressed  by  hunger,  an  Indian  in  the  woods  would  rather 
remain  without  food  than  strip  one  of  these  trees,  lest  he 
should  deprive  the  ghosts  of  their  sustenance.  ...  No 
trace  of  this  belief  seems  to  exist  among  the  colored 
people  of  Martinique. 

Among  the  poor  such  fruits  are  luxuries :  they  eat 
more  mangoes  than  any  other  fruits  excepting  bananas. 
It  is  rather  slobbery  work  eating  a  common  mango,  in 
which  every  particle  of  pulp  is  threaded  fast  to  the 
kernel :  one  prefers  to  gnaw  it  when  alone.  But  there 
are  cultivated  mangoes  with  finer  and  thicker  flesh  which 
can  be  sliced  off,  so  that  the  greater  part  of  the  fruit 
may  be  eaten  without  smearing  and  sucking.  Among 


BREAD-FRUIT  TREE, 


Ma  Bonne.  363 

grafted  varieties  the  mangue  is  quite  as  delicious  as  the 
orange.  Perhaps  there  are  nearly  as  many  varieties  of 
mangoes  in  Martinique  as  there  are  varieties  of  peaches 
with  us :  I  am  acquainted,  however,  with  only  a  few, — 
such  as  the  mango- B  as  s  igti  ac ; — mango-peche  (or  peach- 
mango); — mango-vert  (green  mango),  very  large  and  ob- 
long;— mango-greffe ; — mangotine,  quite  round  and  small; 
— mango-quinette,  very  small  also,  almost  egg-shaped  ; — 
mango-Zeze,  very  sweet,  rather  small,  and  of  flattened 
form;  —  mango- cT  or  (golden  mango),  worth  half. a  franc 
each  ; — mango- Lamentin,  a  highly  cultivated  variety ; — 
and  the  superb  Reine-Amelie  (or  Queen  Amelia),  a  great 
yellow  fruit  which  retails  even  in  Martinique  at  five  cents 
apiece. 

VIII. 

.  .  .  "Ou  c*est  bonhomme  caton? — ou  c'est  zimage,  non?" 
(Am  I  a  pasteboard  man,  or  an  image,  that  I  do  not 
eat  ?)  Cyrillia  wants  to  know.  The  fact  is  that  I  am  a 
little  overfed ;  but  the  stranger  in  the  tropics  cannot  eat 
like  a  native,  and  my  abstemiousness  is  a  surprise.  In 
the  North  we  eat  a  good  deal  for  the  sake  of  caloric ;  in 
the  tropics,  unless  one  be  in  the  habit  of  taking  much 
physical  exercise,  which  is  a  very  difficult  thing  to  do,  a 
generous  appetite  is  out  of  the  question.  Cyrillia  will 
not  suffer  me  to  live  upon  mange-Creole  altogether ;  she 
insists  upon  occasional  beefsteaks  and  roasts,  and  tries 
to  tempt  me  with  all  kinds  of  queer  delicious  desserts  as 
well, — particularly  those  cakes  made  of  grated  cocoanut 
and  sugar-syrup  (tablett-coco-rape)  of  which  a  stranger  be- 
comes very  fond.  But,  nevertheless,  I  cannot  eat  enough 
to  quiet  Cyrillia's  fears. 

Not  eating  enough  is  not  her  only  complaint  against 
me.  I  am  perpetually  doing  something  or  other  which 
shocks  her.  The  Creoles  are  the  most  cautious  livers  in 
the  world,  perhaps ; — the  stranger  who  walks  in  the  sun 


364  Martinique  Sketches. 

without  an  umbrella,  or  stands  in  currents  of  air,  is  for 
them  an  object  of  wonder  and  compassion.  Cyrillia's 
complaints  about  my  recklessness  in  the  matter  of  hy- 
giene always  terminate  with  the  refrain  :  "  Yo  pa  fai 
fa  ift" — (People  never  do  such  things  in  Martinique.) 
Among  such  rash  acts  are  washing  one's  face  or  hands 
while  perspiring,  taking  off  one's  hat  on  coming  in  from 
a  walk,  going  out  immediately  after  a  bath,  and  washing 
my  face  with  soap.  "  Oh,  Cyrillia  !  what  foolishness  !— 
why  should  I  not  wash  my  face  with  soap  ?"  "  Because 
it  will  blind  you,"  Cyrillia  answers  :  "fa  ke  tchoue  limie  zie 
ou  "  (it  will  kill  the  light  in  your  eyes).  There  is  no 
cleaner  person  than  Cyrillia;  and,  indeed  among  the  city 
people,  the  daily  bath  is  the  rule  in  all  weathers ;  but 
soap  is  never  used  on  the  face  by  thousands,  who,  like 
Cyrillia,  believe  it  will  "  kill  the  light  of  the  eyes." 

One  day  I  had  been  taking  a  long  walk  in  the  sun,  and 
returned  so  thirsty  that  all  the  old  stories  about  travel- 
lers suffering  in  waterless  deserts  returned  to  memory 
with  new  significance ; — visions  of  simooms  arose  before 
me.  What  a  delight  to  see  and  to  grasp  the  heavy,  red, 
thick-lipped  dobanne,  the  water- jar,  dewy  and  cool  with 
the  exudation  of  the  Eau-de-Gouyave  which  filled  it  to 
the  brim, —  toutt  vivant,  as  Cyrillia  says,  "all  alive"! 
There  was  a  sudden  scream, —  the  water -pitcher  was 
snatched  from  my  hands  by  Cyrillia  with  the  question : 
"£ss  ou  le  tchoue  co-ou  ?— Saint  Joseph  /"  (Did  I  want  to 
kill  my  body  ?) .  .  .  The  Creoles  use  the  word  "  body  "  in 
speaking  of  anything  that  can  happen  to  one, — "hurt 
one's  body,"  "tire  one's  body,"  "marry  one's  body," 
"bury  one's  body,"  etc.; — I  wonder  whether  the  expres- 
sion originated  in  zealous  desire  to  prove  a  profound 
faith  in  the  soul.  .  .  .  Then  Cyrillia  made  me  a  little  punch 
with  sugar  and  rum,  and  told  me  I  must  never  drink 
fresh-water  after  a  walk  unless  I  wanted  to  kill  my  body. 
In  this  matter  her  advice  was  good.  The  immediate  re^ 


Ma  Bonne.  365 

suit  of  a  cold  drink  while  heated  is  a  profuse  and  icy 
perspiration,  during  which  currents  of  air  are  really  dan- 
gerous. A  cold  is  not  dreaded  here,  and  colds  are  rare ; 
but  pleurisy  is  common,  and  may  be  the  consequence  of 
any  imprudent  exposure. 

I  do  not  often  have  the  opportunity  at  home  of  com- 
mitting even  an  unconscious  imprudence  ;  for  Cyrillia 
is  ubiquitous,  and  always  on  the  watch  lest  something 
dreadful  should  happen  to  me.  She  is  wonderful  as  a 
house-keeper  as  well  as  a  cook :  there  is  certainly  much 
to  do,  and  she  has  only  a  child  to  help  her,  but  she  al- 
ways seems  to  have  time.  Her  kitchen  apparatus  is  of 
the  simplest  kind :  a  charcoal  furnace  constructed  of 
bricks,  a  few  earthenware  pots  (canari},  and  some  grid- 
irons ; — yet  with  these  she  can  certainly  prepare  as  many 
dishes  as  there  are  days  in  the  year.  I  have  never  known 
her  to  be  busy  with  her  canari  for  more  than  an  hour ; 
yet  everything  is  kept  in  perfect  order.  When  she  is  not 
working,  she  is  quite  happy  in  sitting  at  a  window,  and 
amusing  herself  by  watching  the  life  of  the  street, — or 
playing  with  a  kitten,  which  she  has  trained  so  well  that 
it  seems  to  understand  everything  she  says. 


IX. 

WITH  darkness  all  the  population  of  the  island  retire 
to  their  homes ; — the  streets  become  silent,  and  the  life 
of  the  day  is  done.  By  eight  o'clock  nearly  all  the  win- 
dows are  closed,  and  the  lights  put  out ; — by  nine  the 
people  are  asleep.  There  are  no  evening  parties,  no  night 
amusements,  except  during  rare  theatrical  seasons  and 
times  of  Carnival ;  there  are  no  evening  visits :  active  ex- 
istence is  almost  timed  by  the  rising  and  setting  of  the 
sun.  .  .  .  The  only  pleasure  left  for  the  stranger  of  even- 
ings is  a  quiet  smoke  on  his  balcony  or  before  his  door : 
reading  is  out  of  the  question,  partly  because  books  are. 


366  Martinique  Sketches. 

rare,  partly  because  lights  are  bad,  partly  because  insects 
throng  about  every  lamp  or  candle.  I  am  lucky  enough 
to  have  a  balcony,  broad  enough  for  a  rocking-chair;  and 
sometimes  Cyrillia  and  the  kitten  come  to  keep  me  com- 
pany before  bedtime.  The  kitten  climbs  on  my  knees; 
Cyrillia  sits  right  down  upon  the  balcony. 

One  bright  evening,  Cyrillia  was  amusing  herself  very 
much  by  watching  the  clouds :  they  were  floating  high ; 
the  moonlight  made  them  brilliant  as  frost.  As  they 
changed  shape  under  the  pressure  of  the  trade -wind, 
Cyrillia  seemed  to  discover  wonderful  things  in  them  : 
sheep,  ships  with  sails,  cows,  faces,  perhaps  even  zombis. 

— " Travaill  Bon-Die  joli, — anhT'1  (Is  not  the  work  of 
the  Good-God  pretty?)  she  said  at  last.  .  .  .  "There  was 
Madame  Remy,  who  used  to  sell  the  finest  foulards  and 
Madrases  in  St.  Pierre ; — she  used  to  study  the  clouds. 
She  drew  the  patterns  of  the  clouds  for  her  foulards  : 
whenever  she  saw  a  beautiful  cloud  or  a  beautiful  rain- 
bow, she  would  make  a  drawing  of  it  in  color  at  once ; 
and  then  she  would  send  that  to  France  to  have  foulards 
made  just  like  it.  ...  Since  she  is  dead,-  you  do  not  see 
any  more  pretty  foulards  such  as  there  used  to  be."  .  .  , 

— "  Would  you  like  to  look  at  the  moon  with  my  tele- 
scope, Cyrillia?"  I  asked.  "Let me  get  it  for  you." 

— "  Oh  no,  no  !"  she  answered,  as  if  shocked. 

— "  Why  ?" 

— "Ah!  faut pa  gade  bagga'ie  Bon- Die  conm  fa/"  (It 
is  not  right  to  look  at  the  things  of  the  Good-God  that 
way.) 

I  did  not  insist.  After  a  little  silence,  Cyrillia  re- 
sumed : — 

— "  But  I  saw  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  once  fighting 
together :  that  was  what  people  call  an  eclipse, — is  not 
that  the  word  ?  .  .  .  They  fought  together  a  long  time  :  I 
was  looking  at  them.  We  put  a  terrine  full  of  water  on 
£he  ground,  and  looked  into  the  water  to  see  them.  And 


Ma  Bonne.  367 

the  Moon  is  stronger  than  the  Sun !— yes,  the  Sun  was 
obliged  to  give  way  to  the  Moon.  .  .  .  Why  do  they  fight 
like  that  ?" 

—"They  don't,  Cyrillia." 

—"Oh  yes,  they  do.  I  saw  them!  .  .  .  And  the  Moon 
is  much  stronger  than  the  Sun !" 

I  did  not  attempt  to  contradict  this  testimony  of  the 
eyes.  Cyrillia  continued  to  watch  the  pretty  clouds. 
Then  she  said  :— 

—"Would  you  not  like  to  have  a  ladder  long  enough 
to  let  you  climb  up  to  those  clouds,  and  see  what  they 
are  made  of  ?" 

—"Why,  Cyrillia,  they  are  only  vapor,  —  brume:  I 
have  been  in  clouds." 

She  looked  at  me  in  surprise,  and,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  asked,  with  an  irony  of  which  I  had  not  supposed 
her  capable : — 

— "  Then  you  are  the  Good-God  ?" 

— "  Why,  Cyrillia,  it  is  not  difficult  to  reach  clouds. 
You  see  clouds  always  upon  the  top  of  the  Montagne 
Pelee  ; — people  go  there.  I  have  been  there — in  the 
clouds." 

— "  Ah  !  those  are  not  the  same  clouds :  those  are  not 
the  clouds  of  the  Good-God.  You  cannot  touch  the  sky 
when  you  are  on  the  Morne  de  la  Croix." 

— "  My  dear  Cyrillia,  there  is  no  sky  to  touch.  The 
sky  is  only  an  appearance." 

— "  Anh,  anh,  anh  !  No  sky! — you  say  there  is  no 
sky  ?  .  .  .  Then,  what  is  that  up  there  ?" 

— "  That  is  air,  Cyrillia,  beautiful  blue  air." 

— "  And  what  are  the  stars  fastened  to  ?" 

— "  To  nothing.  They  are  suns,  but  so  much  further 
away  than  our  sun  that  they  look  small." 

— "  No,  they  are  not  suns  !  They  have  not  the  same 
form  as  the  sun.  .  .  .  You  must  not  say  there  is  no  sky: 
it  is  wicked!  But  you  are  not  a  Catholic !" 


368  Martinique  Sketches. 

— "  My  dear  Cyrillia,  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do 
with  the  sky." 

— "  Where  does  the  Good  -  God  stay,  if  there  be  no 
sky  ?  And  where  is  heaven  ? — and  where  is  hell  ?" 

— "  Hell  in  the  sky,  Cyrillia  ?" 

—"The  Good-God  made  heaven  in  one  part  of  the 
sky,  and  hell  in  another  part,  for  bad  people.  .  .  .  Ah  ! 
you  are  a  Protestant; — you  do  not  know  the  things  of 
the  Good-God  !  That  is  why  you  talk  like  that." 

— "  What  is  a  Protestant,  Cyrillia  ?" 

— "  You  are  one.  The  Protestants  do  not  believe  in 
religion, — do  not  love  the  Good-God." 

—"Well,  I  am  neither  a  Protestant  nor  a  Catholic, 
Cyrillia." 

—"Oh!  you  do  not  mean  that;  you  cannot  be  a 
maudt,  an  accursed.  There  are  only  the  Protestants, 
the  Catholics,  and  the  accursed.  You  are  not  a  maudi, 
I  am  sure.  But  you  must  not  say  there  is  no  sky"  .  .  . 

— "  But,  Cyrillia  "— 

— "  No :  I  will  not  listen  to  you  : — you  are  a  Protes- 
tant. Where  does  the  rain  come  from,  if  there  is  no 
sky?".  .  . 

— "  Why,  Cyrillia,  ...  the  clouds  "... 

— "  No,  you  are  a  Protestant.  .  .  .  How  can  you  say 
such  things  ?  There  are  the  Three  Kings  and  the  Three 
Valets,  —  the  beautiful  stars  that  come  at  Christmas- 
time,— there,  over  there: — all  beautiful,  and  big,  big,  big ! 
.  .  .  And  you  say  there  is  no  sky !" 

— "  Cyrillia,  perhaps  I  am  a  maudi" 

— "  No,  no  !  You  are  only  a  Protestant.  But  do  not 
tell  me  there  is  no  sky  :  it  is  wicked  to  say  that !" 

— "I  won't  say  it  any  more,  Cyrillia — there!  But  I 
will  say  there  are  no  zombis" 

— "  I  know  you  are  not  a  maudi ; — you  have  been 
baptized." 

— "  How  do  you  Unow  I  have  been  baptized  ?" 


Ma  Bonne.  369 

— "  Because,  if  you  had  not  been  baptized  you  would 
see  zombis  all  the  time,  even  in  broad  day.  All  chil- 
dren who  are  not  baptized  see  zombis"  .  .  . 


X. 

CYRILLIA'S  solicitude  for  me  extends  beyond  the  com- 
monplaces of  hygiene  and  diet  into  the  uncertain  domain 
of  matters  ghostly.  She  fears  much  that  something 
might  happen  to  me  through  the  agency  of  wizards, 
witches  (socles),  or  zombis.  Especially  zombis.  Cyrillia's 
belief  in  zombis  has  a  solidity  that  renders  argument 
out  of  the  question.  This  belief  is  part  of  her  inner  nat- 
ure,— something  hereditary,  racial,  ancient  as  Africa,  as 
characteristic  of  her  people  as  the  love  of  rhythms  and 
melodies  totally  different  from  our  own  musical  concep- 
tions, but  possessing,  even  for  the  civilized,  an  inexplica- 
ble emotional  charm. 

Zombi!—  the  word  is  perhaps  full  of  mystery  even  for 
those  who  made  it.  The  explanations  of  those  who 
utter  it  most  often  are  never  quite  lucid :  it  seems  to 
convey  ideas  darkly  impossible  to  define, — fancies  be- 
longing to  the  mind  of  another  race  and  another  era, — 
unspeakably  old.  Perhaps  the  word  in  our  own  lan- 
guage which  offers  the  best  analogy  is  "  goblin  "  :  yet 
the  one  is  not  fully  translated  by  the  other.  Both  have, 
however,  one  common  ground  on  which  they  become  in- 
distinguishable,— that  region  of  the  supernatural  which 
is  most  primitive  and  most  vague ;  and  the  closest  rela- 
tion between  the  savage  and  the  civilized  fancy  may  be 
found  in  the  fears  which  we  call  childish, — of  darkness, 
shadows,  and  things  dreamed.  One  form  of  the  zombi- 
belief— akin  to  certain  ghostly  superstitions  held  by  va- 
rious primitive  races — would  seem  to  have  been  sug- 
gested by  nightmare, — that  form  of  nightmare  in  which 
familiar  persons  become  slowly  and  hideously  trans- 


370  Martinique  Sketches. 

formed  into  malevolent  beings.  The  zombi  deludes 
under  the  appearance  of  a  travelling  companion,  an  old 
comrade — like  the  desert  spirits  of  the  Arabs — or  even 
under  the  form  of  an  animal.  Consequently  the  Creole 
negro  fears  everything  living  which  he  meets  after  dark 
upon  a  lonely  road, — a  stray  horse,  a  cow,  even  a  dog ; 
and  mothers  quell  the  naughtiness  of  their  children  by 
the  threat  of  summoning  a  zombi  cat  or  a  zombi-creature 
of  some  kind.  "Zombi  ke  nana  ou  "  (the  zombi  will  gob- 
ble thee  up)  is  generally  an  effectual  menace  in  the  coun- 
try parts,  where  it  is  believed  zombis  may  be  met  with 
any  time  after  sunset.  In  the  city  it  is  thought  that  their 
regular  hours  are  between  two  and  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  At  least  so  Cyrillia  says  : — 

— "  Dezhe,  toua-zhe-  matin  :  c'est  Ihe  zombi.  Yo  ka 
soti  dezhe,  toua  zhe:  c'est  Ihe  yo.  A  quattrhe  yo  ka  ren- 
tre ; — angelus  ka  sonne."  (At  four  o'clock  they  go  back 
where  they  came  from,  before  the  Angelus  rings.)  Why  ? 

— "  C'est pou  moune  pas  joinne  yo  dans  larue"  (So  that 
people  may  not  meet  with  them  in  the  street),  Cyrillia 
answers. 

— "Are  they  afraid  of  the  people,  Cyrillia?"  I  asked. 

— "  No,  they  are  not  afraid ;  but  they  do  not  want 
people  to  know  their  business  "  (pa  le  moune  oue  zaffai 
yo). 

Cyrillia  also  says  one  must  not  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow when  a  dog  howls  at  night.  Such  a  dog  may  be  a 
mauvais  vivant  (evil  being) :  "  If  he  sees  me  looking  at 
him  he  will  say,  'On  tropp  quiriese  quitte  cabane  ou  pou 
gade  zaffai  lezautt!  "  (You  are  too  curious  to  leave  your 
bed  like  that  to  look  at  other  folks'  business,) 

—"And  what  then,  Cyrillia  ?" 

— "  Then  he  will  put  out  your  eyes, — y  ke  coqui  zik 
ou, — make  you  blind." 

— "  But,  Cyrillia,"  I  asked  one  day,  "  did  you  ever  see 
any  zombis  ?" 


Ma  Bonne.  371 

— "  How?  I  often  see  them  !  .  .  .  They  walk  about  the 
room  at  night ; — they  walk  like  people.  They  sit  in  the 
rocking-chairs  and  rock  themselves  very  softly,  and  look 
at  me.  I  say  to  them  : — '  What  do  you  want  here  ? — I 
never  did  any  harm  to  anybody.  Go  away!'  Then 
they  go  away." 

— "  What  do  they  look  like  ?" 

— "  Like  people, — sometimes  like  beautiful  people  (bel 
moune).  I  am  afraid  of  them.  I  only  see  them  when 
there  is  no  light  burning.  While  the  lamp  burns  before 
the  Virgin  they  do  not  come.  But  sometimes  the  oil 
fails,  and  the  light  dies." 

In  my  own  room  there  are  dried  palm  leaves  and  some 
withered  flowers  fastened  to  the  wall.  Cyrillia  put  them 
there.  They  were  taken  from  the  reposoirs  (temporary 
altars)  erected  for  the  last  Corpus  Christi  procession  : 
consequently  they  are  blessed,  and  ought  to  keep  the 
zombis  away.  That  is  why  they  are  fastened  to  the  wall, 
over  my  bed. 

Nobody  could  be  kinder  to  animals  than  Cyrillia  usu- 
ally shows  herself  to  be :  all  the  domestic  animals  in 
the  neighborhood  impose  upon  her; — various  dogs  and 
cats  steal  from  her  impudently,  without  the  least  fear  of 
being  beaten.  I  was  therefore  very  much  surprised  to 
see  her  one  evening  catch  a  flying  beetle  that  approached 
the  light,  and  deliberately  put  its  head  in  the  candle- 
flame.  When  I  asked  her  how  she  could  be  so  cruel, 
she  replied  : — 

— "Ah!  ou  pa  connaitt  cho'ie  pays-ci"  (You  do  not 
know  Things  in  this  country.) 

The  Things  thus  referred  to  I  found  to  be  supernatu- 
ral Things.  It  is  popularly  believed  that  certain  winged 
creatures  which  circle  about  candles  at  night  may  be 
engages  or  envoyes — wicked  people  having  the  power  of 
transformation,  or  even  zombis  "sent"  by  witches  or 
wizards  to  do  harm.  "  There  was  a  woman  at  Trico- 


372  Martinique  Sketches. 

lore,"  Cyrillia  says,  "  who  used  to  sew  a  great  deal  at 
night ;  and  a  big  beetle  used  to  come  into  her  room  and 
fly  about  the  candle,  and  bother  her  very  much.  One 
night  she  managed  to  get  hold  of  it,  and  she  singed  its 
head  in  the  candle.  Next  day,  a  woman  who  was  her 
neighbor  came  to  the  house  with  her  head  all  tied  up. 
lAh  !  macoume,'  asked  the  sewing-woman,  'fa  ou  ni  dans 
guible-ou  ¥  And  the  other  answered,  very  angrily,  '  Ou 
ni  toupet  mande  moin  fa  main  ni  dans  giiible  main  ! — et  cete 
ou  qui  te  brile  guible  moin  nans  chandelle-ou  hie-soue?" 
(You  have  the  impudence  to  ask  what  is  the  matter  with 
my  mouth  !  and  you  yourself  burned  my  mouth  in  your 
candle  last  night.) 

Early  one  morning,  about  five  o'clock,  Cyrillia,  open- 
ing the  front  door,  saw  a  huge  crab  walking  down  the 
street.  Probably  it  had  escaped  from  some  barrel ;  for 
it  is  customary  here  to  keep  live  crabs  in  barrels  and 
fatten  them, —  feeding  them  with  maize,  mangoes,  and, 
above  all,  green  peppers :  nobody  likes  to  cook  crabs  as 
soon  as  caught ;  for  they  may  have  been  eating  manchi- 
neel  apples  at  the  river-mouths.  Cyrillia  uttered  a  cry  of 
dismay  on  seeing  that  crab ;  then  I  heard  her  talking  to 
herself  : — "/  touch  it  ? — never  !  it  can  go  about  its  busi- 
ness. How  do  I  know  it  is  not  an  arranged  crab  (yon 
crabe  range],  or  an  envoye? — since  everybody  knows  I 
like  crabs.  For  two  sous  I  can  buy  a  fine  crab  and 
know  where  it  comes  from."  The  crab  went  on  down 
the  street :  everywhere  the  sight  of  it  created  consterna- 
tion ;  nobody  dared  to  touch  it ;  women  cried  out  at  it, 
"Miserabe! — envoye  Satan! — allez,  maudi /" — some  threw 
holy  water  on  the  crab.  Doubtless  it  reached  the  sea  in 
safety.  In  the  evening  Cyrillia  said  :  "  I  think  that  crab 
was  a  little  zombi ; — I  am  going  to  burn  a  light  all  night 
to  keep  it  from  coming  back." 

Another  day,  while  I  was  out,  a  negro  to  whom  I  had 
lent  two  francs  came  to  the  house,  and  paid  his  debt. 


Ma  Bonne.  373 

Cyrillia  told  me  when  I  came  back,  and  showed  me  the 
money  carefully  enveloped  in  a  piece  of  brown  paper ; 
but  said  I  must  not  touch  it, — she  would  get  rid  of  it  for 
me  at  the  market.  I  laughed  at  her  fears ;  and  she  ob- 
served :  "  You  do  not  know  negroes,  Missie ! — negroes 
are  wicked,  negroes  are  jealous !  I  do  not  want  you  to 
touch  that  money,  because  I  have  not  a  good  opinion 
about  this  affair." 

After  I  began  to  learn  more  of  the  underside  of  Mar- 
tinique life,  I  could  understand  the  source  and  justifica- 
tion of  many  similar  superstitions  in  simple  and  unedu- 
cated minds.  The  negro  sorcerer  is,  at  worst,  only  a 
poisoner  ;  but  he  possesses  a  very  curious  art  which  long 
defied  serious  investigation,  and  in  the  beginning  of  the 
last  century  was  attributed,  even  by  whites,  to  diaboli- 
cal influence.  In  1721,  1723,  and  1725,  several  negroes 
were  burned  alive  at  the  stake  as  wizards  in  league  with 
the  devil.  It  was  an  era  of  comparative  ignorance  ;  but 
even  now  things  are  done  which  would  astonish  the  most 
sceptical  and  practical  physician.  For  example,  a  la- 
borer discharged  from  a  plantation  vows  vengeance ;  and 
the  next  morning  the  whole  force  of  hands  —  the  entire 
atelier—  are  totally  disabled  from  work.  Every  man  and 
woman  on  the  place  is  unable  to  walk ;  everybody  has 
one  or  both  legs  frightfully  swollen.  Yo  te  ka  pile  mali- 
fice:  they  have  trodden  on  a  "malifice."  What  is  the 
"  malifice  "  ?  All  that  can  be  ascertained  is  that  certain 
little  prickly  seeds  have  been  scattered  all  over  the 
ground,  where  the  barefooted  workers  are  in  the  habit 
of  passing.  Ordinarily,  treading  on  these  seeds  is  of  no 
consequence ;  but  it  is  evident  in  such  a  case  that  they 
must  have  been  prepared  in  a  special  way, — soaked  in 
some  poison,  perhaps  snake-venom.  At  all  events,  the 
physician  deems  it  safest  to  treat  the  inflammations  after 
the  manner  of  snake  wounds ;  and  after  many  days  the 
hands  are  perhaps  able  to  resume  duty. 


3/4  Martinique  Sketches. 

XI. 

WHILE  Cyrillia  is  busy  with  her  canari,  she  talks  to 
herself  or  sings.  She  has  a  low  rich  voice, —  sings 
strange  things,  things  that  have  been  forgotten  by  this 
generation,— creole  songs  of  the  old  days,  having  a  weird 
rhythm  and  fractions  of  tones  that  are  surely  African. 
But  more  generally  she  talks  to  herself,  as  all  the  Marti- 
niquaises  do :  it  is  a  continual  murmur  as  of  a  stream. 
At  first  I  used  to  think  she  was  talking  to  somebody 
else,  and  would  call  out :— 

— "Epi  quiless  moune  fa  ou  ka  pale-a  ?" 

But  she  would  always  answer  : — "Moin  ka  pale  anni  co 
main  "  (I  am  only  talking  to  my  own  body),  which  is  the 
creole  expression  for  talking  to  oneself. 

— "And  what  are  you  talking  so  much  to  your  own 
body  about,  Cyrillia  ?" 

— "  I  am  talking  about  my  own  little  affairs  "  (//'  zaffai- 
moin).  .  .  .  That  is'  all  that  I  could  ever  draw  from  her. 

But  when  not  working,  she  will  sit  for  hours  looking 
out  of  the  window.  In  this  she  resembles  the  kitten  : 
both  seem  to  find  the  same  silent  pleasure  in  watching 
the  street,  or  the  green  heights  that  rise  above  its  roofs, — 
the  Morne  d'Orange.  Occasionally  at  such  times  she 
will  break  the  silence  in  the  strangest  way,  if  she  thinks 
I  am  not  too  busy  with  my  papers  to  answer  a  ques- 
tion :— 

—"Missiir— timidly. 

— "  Eh  ?" 

— "Di  moin,  che,  ti  manmaille  dans  pays  ou,  toutt  piti, 
piti, — ess  fa  pale  Anglais?"  (Do  the  little  children  in 
my  country — the  very,  very  little  children  —  talk  Eng- 
lish ?) 

—"Why,  certainly,  Cyrillia." 

— " 'Toutt piti,  piti '  ?" — with  growing  surprise. 

— "  Why,  of  course  !" 


Ma  Bonne.  375 

~"Cest  drble,  fa/"  (It  is  queer,  that !)  She  cannot 
understand  it. 

— "  And  the  little  manmaille  in  Martinique,  Cyrillia— 
toutt piti,piti, — don't  they  talk  Creole  ?" 

— "  Out;  mats  toutt  moune  ka  pale  negue :  fa  facile." 
(Yes ;  but  anybody  can  talk  negro — that  is  easy  to  learn.) 


XII. 

CYRILLIA'S  room  has  no  furniture  in  it :  the  Martinique 
bonne  lives  as  simply  and  as  rudely  as  a  domestic  ani- 
mal. One  thin  mattress  covered  with  a  sheet,  and  ele- 
vated from  the  floor  only  by  a  lefant,  forms  her  bed. 
The  lefant,  or  "  elephant,"  is  composed  of  two  thick 
square  pieces  of  coarse  hard  mattress  stuffed  with  shav- 
ings, and  placed  end  to  end.  Cyrillia  has  a  good  pillow, 
however, — bourre  epi  fleches-canne, — filled  with  the  plumes 
of  the  sugar-cane.  A  cheap  trunk  with  broken  hinges 
contains  her  modest  little  wardrobe :  a  few  mouchoirs, 
or  kerchiefs,  used  for  head-dresses,  a  spare  douillette,  or 
long  robe,  and  some  tattered  linen.  Still  she  is  always 
clean,  neat,  fresh-looking.  I  see  a  pair  of  sandals  in  the 
corner, — such  as  the  women  of  the  country  sometimes 
wear — wooden  soles  with  a  leather  band  for  the  instep, 
and  two  little  straps ;  but  she  never  puts  them  on.  Fast- 
ened to  the  wall  are  two  French  prints — lithographs : 
one  representing  Victor  Hugo's  Esmeralda  in  prison 
with  her  pet  goat ;  the  other,  Lamartine's  Laurence  with 
her  fawn.  Both  are  very  old  and  stained  and  bitten  by 
the  bete-a-ciseau,  a  species  of  lepisma,  which  destroys  books 
and  papers,  and  everything  it  can  find  exposed.  On  a 
shelf  are  two  bottles, — one  filled  with  holy  water ;  anoth- 
er with  tafia  camphree  (camphor  dissolved  in  tafia),  which 
is  Cyrillia's  sole  remedy  for  colds,  fevers,  headaches — all 
maladies  not  of  a  very  fatal  description.  There  are  also 
a  little  woollen  monkey,  about  three  inches  high — the 
29 


376  Martinique  Sketches. 

dusty  plaything  of  a  long-dead  child ; — an  image  of  the 
Virgin,  even  smaller  ;  —  and  a  broken  cup  with  fresh 
bright  blossoms  in  it,  the  Virgin's  flower-offering ; — and 
the  Virgin's  invariable  lamp — a  night-light,  a  little  wick 
floating  on  olive-oil  in  a  tiny  glass. 

I  know  that  Cyrillia  must  have  bought  these  flowers— 
they  are  garden  flowers — at  the  Marche  du  Fort.  There 
are  always  old  women  sitting  there  who  sell  nothing  else 
but  bouquets  for  the  Virgin, — and  who  cry  out  to  pass- 
ers-by: — "Gagne  ti  bouquet  pou  Viege-ou,  che  ! .  .  .  Buy  a 
nosegay,  dear,  for  your  Virgin  ; — she  is  asking  you  for 
one ; — give  her  a  little  one,  che  cocott" .  .  .  Cyrillia  says 
you  must  not  smell  the  flowers  you  give  the  Virgin  :  it 
would  be  stealing  from  her.  .  .  .  The  little  lamp  is  always 
lighted  at  six  o'clock.  At  six  o'clock  the  Virgin  is  sup- 
posed to  pass  through  all  the  streets  of  St.  Pierre,  and 
wherever  a  lamp  burns  before  her  image,  she  enters  there 
and  blesses  that  house.  "Faut  lime  lampe  ou  pou  fai  la- 
Viege  passe  dans  ca'ie-ou"  says  Cyrillia.  (You  must  light 
the  lamp  to  make  the  Virgin  come  into  your  house.) .  .  . 
Cyrillia  often  talks  to  her  little  image,  exactly  as  if  it 
were  a  baby, — calls  it  pet  names, — asks  if  it  is  content 
with  the  flowers. 

This  image  of  the  Virgin  is  broken  :  it  is  only  half  a 
Virgin, —  the  upper  half.  Cyrillia  has  arranged  it  so, 
nevertheless,  that  had  I  not  been  very  inquisitive  I 
should  never  have  divined  its  mishap.  She  found  a 
small  broken  powder-box  without  a  lid, — probably  thrown 
negligently  out  of  a  boudoir  window  by  some  wealthy 
beauty :  she  filled  this  little  box  with  straw,  and  fixed 
the  mutilated  image  upright  within  it,  so  that  you  could 
never  suspect  the  loss  of  its  feet.  The  Virgin  looks  very 
funny,  thus  peeping  over  the  edge  of  her  little  box, — 
looks  like  a  broken  toy,  which  a  child  has  been  trying  to 
mend.  But  this  Virgin  has  offerings  too  :  Cyrillia  buys 
flowers  for  her,  and  sticks  them  all  round  her,  between 


Ma  Bonne.  377 

the  edge  of  the  powder-box  and  the  straw.  After  all, 
Cyrillia's  Virgin  is  quite  as  serious  a  fact  as  any  image 
of  silver  or  of  ivory  in  the  homes  of  the  rich :  probably 
the  prayers  said  to  her  are  more  simply  beautiful,  and 
more  direct  from  the  heart,  than  many  daily  murmured 
before  the  chapelles  of  luxurious  homes.  And  the  more 
one  looks  at  it,  the  more  one  feels  that  it  were  almost 
wicked  to  smile  at  this  little  broken,  toy  of  faith. 

— "  Cyrillia,  mafi"  I  asked  her  one  day,  after  my  dis- 
covery of  the  little  Virgin, —  "would  you  not  like  me  to 
buy  a  chapelle  for  you  ?"  The  chapelle  is  the  little 
bracket-altar,  together  with  images  and  ornaments,  to  be 
found  in  every  creole  bedroom. 

— "Mais  non,  Missie"  she  answered,  smiling,  " main 
aimein  ti  Viege  moin,  pa  le  gagnin  dautt,  I  love  my  lit- 
tle Virgin :  do  not  want  any  other.  I  have  seen  much 
trouble :  she  was  with  me  in  my  trouble ; — she  heard  my 
prayers.  It  would  be  wicked  for  me  to  throw  her  away. 
When  I  have  a  sou  to  spare,  I  buy  flowers  for  her ; — 
when  I  have  no  money,  I  climb  the  mornes,  and  pick 
pretty  buds  for  her.  .  .  .  But  why  should  Missie  want  to 
buy  me  a  chapdle? — Missie  is  a  Protestant?" 

— "  I  thought  it  might  give  you  pleasure,  Cyrillia." 
— "  No,  Missie,  I  thank  you ;    it  would  not  give  me 
pleasure.      But   Missie   could  give    me    something  else 
which  would  make  me  very  happy —      I  often  thought 
of  asking  Missie  .  .  .  but — 

— "  Tell  me  what  it  is,  Cyrillia." 
She  remained  silent  a  moment,  then  said  : — 
— "  Missie  makes  photographs.  .  .  ." 
— "  You  want  a  photograph  of  yourself,  Cyrillia  ?" 
— "  Oh  !   no,  Missie,  I  am  too  ugly  and  too  old.     But 
I  have  a  daughter.     She  is  beautiful— yon  bel  bois, — like 
a  beautiful  tree,  as  we  say  here.    I  would  like  so  much  to 
have  her  picture  taken." 

A  photographic  instrument  belonging  to  a  clumsy  am- 


378  Martinique  Sketches. 

ateur  suggested  this  request  to  Cyrillia.  I  could  not  at- 
tempt such  work  successfully ;  but  I  gave  her  a  note  to  a 
photographer  of  much  skill ;  and  a  few  days  later  the  por- 
trait was  sent  to  the  house.  Cyrillia's  daughter  was  cer- 
tainly a  comely  girl, — tall  and  almost  gold-colored,  with 
pleasing  features  ;  and  the  photograph  looked  very  nice, 
though  less  nice  than  the  original.  Half  the  beauty  of 
these  people  is  a  beauty  of  tint,  —  a  tint  so  exquisite 
sometimes  that  I  have  even  heard  white  Creoles  declare 
no  white  complexion  compares  with  it :  the  greater  part 
of  the  charm  remaining  is  grace, — the  grace  of  move- 
ment ;  and  neither  of  these  can  be  rendered  by  photog- 
raphy. I  had  the  portrait  framed  for  Cyrillia,  to  hang  up 
beside  her  little  pictures. 

When  it  came,  she  was  not  in ;  I  put  it  in  her  room, 
and  waited  to  see  the  effect.  On  returning,  she  entered 
there ;  and  I  did  not  see  her  for  so  long  a  time  that  I 
stole  to  the  door  of  the  chamber  to  observe  her.  She 
was  standing  before  the  portrait, — looking  at  it,  talking 
to  it  as  if  it  were  alive.  "  Yche  moin,  yche  main  / .  .  .  Out! 
ou  toutt  bel !— yche  moin  bel."  (My  child,  my  child !  .  .  . 
Yes,  thou  art  all  beautiful :  my  child  is  beautiful.)  All 
at  once  she  turned — perhaps  she  noticed  my  shadow,  or 
felt  my  presence  in  some  way :  her  eyes  were  wet ; — she 
started,  flushed,  then  laughed. 

— "Ah  !  Missie,  you  watch  me; — ou guette  moin.  .  .  .  But 
she  is  my  child.  Why  should  I  not  love  her  ? .  .  .  She 
looks  so  beautiful  there." 

— "  She  is  beautiful,  Cyrillia ; — I  love  to  see  you  love 
her." 

She  gazed  at  the  picture  a  little  longer  in  silence ; — 
then  turned  to  me  again,  and  asked  earnestly : — 

—"Pouki  yo  pa  ka  fai  potrai  pale — anh  ? .  .  .  pisse  yo  ka 
tire y  toutt  samm  ou:  c'est  ou-menm! . .  .  Yo  doue  fai y pale 

'tour 

(Why  do  they  not  make  a  portrait  talk,— tell  me  ?    For 


Ma  Bonne.  379 

they  draw  it  just  all  like  you  ! — it  is  yourself  :  they  ought 
to  make  it  talk.) 

— "  Perhaps  they  will  be  able  to  do  something  like  that 
one  of  these  days,  Cyrillia." 

— "  Ah  !  that  would  be  so  nice.  Then  I  could  talk  to 
her.  C'est  yon  bel  moune  moin  fai — y  bel,  joli  moune! 
.  .  .  Moin  se  cause  epi  y".  .  . 

.  .  .  And  I,  watching  her  beautiful  childish  emotion, 
thought : — Cursed  be  the  cruelty  that  would  persuade 
itself  that  one  soul  may  be  like  another, — that  one  af- 
fection may  be  replaced  by  another, — that  individual 
goodness  is  not  a  thing  apart,  original,  untwinned  on 
earth,  but  only  the  general  characteristic  of  a  class  or 
type,  to  be  sought  and  found  and  utilized  at  will !  .  .  . 
Self-cursed  he  who  denies  the  divinity  of  love !  Each 
heart,  each  brain  in  the  billions  of  humanity, — even  so 
surely  as  sorrow  lives, — feels  and  thinks  in  some  special 
way  unlike  any  other;  and  goodness  in  each  has  its  un- 
likeness  to  all  other  goodness, — and  thus  its  own  infinite 
preciousness ;  for  however  humble,  however  small,  it  is 
something  all  alone,  and  God  never  repeats  his  work. 
No  heart-beat  is  cheap,  no  gentleness  is  despicable,  no 
kindness  is  common ;  and  Death,  in  removing  a  life — 
the  simplest  life  ignored, — removes  what  never  will  re- 
appear through  the  eternity  of  eternities, — since  every 
being  is  the  sum  of  a  chain  of  experiences  infinitely 
varied  from  all  others.  .  .  .  To  some  Cyrillia's  happy 
tears  might  bring  a  smile:  to  me  that  smile  would  seem 
the  unforgivable  sin  against  the  Giver  of  Life !  .  .  . 


"PA   COMBINE,  CHE!" 
I. 

.  .  .  MORE  finely  than  any  term  in  our  tongue  does 
the  French  word  frisson  express  that  faint  shiver — as 
of  a  ghostly  touch  thrilling  from  hair  to  feet — which  in- 
tense pleasure  sometimes  gives,  and  which  is  felt  most 
often  and  most  strongly  in  childhood,  when  the  imagina- 
tion is  still  so  sensitive  and  so  powerful  that  one's 
whole  being  trembles  to  the  vibration  of  a  fancy.  And 
this  electric  word  best  expresses,  I  think,  that  long 
thrill  of  amazed  delight  inspired  by  the  first  knowledge 
of  the  tropic  world, — a  sensation  of  weirdness  in  beauty, 
like  the  effect,  in  child-days,  of  fairy  tales  and  stones  of 
phantom  isles. 

For  all  unreal  seems  the  vision  of  it.  The  transfig- 
uration of  all  things  by  the  stupendous  light  and  the 
strange  vapors  of  the  West  Indian  sea, — the  interorbing 
of  flood  and  sky  in  blinding  azure, — the  sudden  spir- 
ings  of  gem-tinted  coast  from  the  ocean, — the  iris-col- 
ors and  astounding  shapes  of  the  hills, — the  unimagina- 
ble magnificence  of  palms, — the  high  woods  veiled  and 
swathed  in  vines  that  blaze  like  emerald :  all  remind  you 
in  some  queer  way  of  things  half  forgotten, — the  fables 
of  enchantment.  Enchantment  it  is  indeed — but  only 
the  enchantment  of  that  Great  Wizard,  the  Sun,  whose 
power  you  are  scarcely  beginning  to  know. 

And  into  the  life  of  the  tropical  city  you  enter  as  in 
dreams  one  enters  into  the  life  of  a  dead  century.  In 
all  the  quaint  streets — over  whose  luminous  yellow  fa- 


' lPa  combing  che  /  "  381 

gades  the  beautiful  burning  violet  of  the  sky  appears 
as  if  but  a  few  feet  away — you  see  youth  good  to  look 
upon  as  ripe  fruit ;  and  the  speech  of  the  people  is 
soft  as  a  coo ;  and  eyes  of  brown  girls  caress  you  with 
a  passing  look.  .  .  .  Love's  world,  you  may  have  heard, 
has  few  restraints  here,  where  Nature  ever  seems  to 
cry  out,  like  the  swart  seller  of  corossoles  : — "Qa  qui  le 
doudouxt".  .  . 

How  often  in  some  passing  figure  does  one  discern  an 
ideal  almost  realized,  and  forbear  to  follow  it  with  un- 
tired  gaze  only  when  another,  another,  and  yet  another, 
come  to  provoke  the  same  aesthetic  fancy, — to  win  the 
same  unspoken  praise !  How  often  does  one  long  for 
artist's  power  to  fix  the  fleeting  lines,  to  catch  the  color, 
to  seize  the  whole  exotic  charm  of  some  special  type ! .  .  . 
One  finds  a  strange  charm  even  in  the  timbre  of  these 
voices, — these  half-breed  voices,  always  with  a  tendency 
to  contralto,  and  vibrant  as  ringing  silver.  What  is  that 
mysterious  quality  in  a  voice  which  has  power  to  make 
the  pulse  beat  faster,  even  when  the  singer  is  unseen  ? 
...  do  only  the  birds  know  ? 

...  It  seems  to  you  that  you  could  never  weary  of 
watching  this  picturesque  life, — of  studying  the  costumes, 
brilliant  with  butterfly  colors, — and  the  statuesque  semi- 
nudity  of  laboring  hundreds, — and  the  untaught  grace  of 
attitudes, — and  the  simplicity  of  manners.  Each  day 
brings  some  new  pleasure  of  surprise ; — even  from  the 
window  of  your  lodging  you  are  ever  noting  something 
novel,  something  to  delight  the  sense  of  oddity  or  beau- 
ty. ...  Even  in  your  room  everything  interests  you,  be- 
cause of  its  queerness  or  quaintness  :  you  become  fond 
of  the  objects  about  you, — the  great  noiseless  rocking- 
chairs  that  lull  to  sleep ; — the  immense  bed  (lit-a-bateaic] 
of  heavy  polished  wood,  with  its  richly  carven  sides 
reaching  down  to  the  very  floor;  —  and  its  invariable 
companion,  the  little  couch  or  sopha,  similarly  shaped 


382  Martinique  Sketches. 

but  much  narrower,  used  only  for  the  siesta ; — and  the 
thick  red  earthen  vessels  (dobannes)  which  keep  your 
drinking-water  cool  on  the  hottest  days,  but  which  are 
always  filled  thrice  between  sunrise  and  sunset  with 
clear  water  from  the  mountain, — dleau  toutt  vivant,  "  all 
alive  " ; — and  the  verrines,  tall  glass  vases  with  stems  of 
bronze  in  which  your  candle  will  burn  steadily  despite 
a  draught ; — and  even  those  funny  little  angels  and  Vir- 
gins which  look  at  you  from  their  bracket  in  the  corner, 
over  the  oil  lamp  you  are  presumed  to  kindle  nightly  in 
their  honor,  however  great  a  heretic  you  may  be.  .  .  . 
You  adopt  at  once,  and  without  reservation,  those  Creole 
home  habits  which  are  the  result  of  centuries  of  experi- 
ence with  climate, — abstention  from  solid  food  before 
the  middle  of  the  day,  repose  after  the  noon  meal  ;— 
and  you  find  each  repast  an  experience  as  curious  as  it 
is  agreeable.  It  is  not  at  all  difficult  to  accustom  one- 
self to  green  pease  stewed  with  sugar,  eggs  mixed  with 
tomatoes,  salt  fish  stewed  in  milk,  palmiste  pith  made 
into  salad,  grated  cocoa  formed  into  rich  cakes,  and 
dishes  of  titiri  cooked  in  -oil, —  the  minuscule  fish,  of 
which  a  thousand  will  scarcely  fill  a  saucer.  Above  all, 
you  are  astonished  by  the  endless  variety  of  vegetables 
and  fruits,  of  all  conceivable  shapes  and  inconceivable 
flavors. 

And  it  does  not  seem  possible  that  even  the  simplest 
little  recurrences  of  this  antiquated,  gentle  home  -  life 
could  ever  prove  wearisome  by  daily  repetition  through 
the  months  and  years.  The  musical  greeting  of  the  col- 
ored child,  tapping  at  your  door  before  sunrise, — "Bon- 
jou\  Missie"—2i?>  she  brings  your  cup  of  black  hot  cof- 
fee and  slice  of  corossole ;  —  the  smile  of  the  silent 
brown  girl  who  carries  your  meals  up-stairs  in  a  tray 
poised  upon  her  brightly  coiffed  head,  and  who  stands 
by  while  you  dine,  watching  every  chance  to  serve,  tread- 
ing quite  silently  with  her  pretty  bare  feet; — the  pleas- 


11  Pa  combine,  che !"  383 

ant  manners  of  the  machanne  who  brings  your  fruit,  the 
porteuse  who  delivers  your  bread,  the  blanchisseuse  who 
washes  your  linen  at  the  river, — and  all  the  kindly  folk 
who  circle  about  your  existence,  with  their  trays  and 
turbans,  their  foulards  and  douillettes,  their  primitive 
grace  and  Creole  chatter :  these  can  never  cease  to  have 
a  charm  for  you.  You  cannot  fail  to  be  touched  also 
by  the  amusing  solicitude  of  these  good  people  for  your 
health,  because  you  are  a. stranger:  their  advice  about 
hours  to  go  out  and  hours  to  stay  at  home, — about  roads 
to  follow  and  paths  to  avoid  on  account  of  snakes, — 
about  removing  your  hat  and  coat,  or  drinking  while 
warm.  .  .  .  Should  you  fall  ill,  this  solicitude  intensifies 
to  devotion  ;  you  are  tirelessly  tended  ;— the  good  peo- 
ple will  exhaust  their  wonderful  knowledge  of  herbs  to 
get  you  well, — will  climb  the  mornes  even  at  midnight, 
in  spite  of  the  risk  of  snakes  and  fear  of  zombis,  to  gath- 
er strange  plants  by  the  light  of  a  lantern.  Natural  joy- 
ousness,  natural  kindliness,  heart -felt  desire  to  please, 
childish  capacity  of  being  delighted  with  trifles, — seem 
characteristic  of  all  this  colored  population.  It  is  turn- 
ing its  best  side  towards  you,  no  doubt ;  but  the  side  of 
the  nature  made  visible  appears  none  the  less  agreeable 
because  you  suspect  there  is  another  which  you  have  not 
seen.  What  kindly  inventiveness  is  displayed  in  con- 
triving surprises  for  you,  or  in  finding  some  queer  thing 
to  show  you, — some  fantastic  plant,  or  grotesque  fish,  or 
singular  bird !  What  apparent  pleasure  in  taking  trouble 
to  gratify, — what  innocent  frankness  of  sympathy !  .  .  . 
Childishly  beautiful  seems  the  readiness  of  this  tinted 
race  to  compassionate  :  you  do  not  reflect  that  it  is 
also  a  savage  trait,  while  the  charm  of  its  novelty  is  yet 
upon  you.  No  one  is  ashamed  to  shed  tears  for  the 
death  of  a  pet  animal ;  any  mishap  to  a  child  creates 
excitement,  and  evokes  an  immediate  volunteering  of 
services.  And  this  compassionate  sentiment  is  often 


384  Martinique  Sketches. 

extended,  in  a  semi-poetical  way,  even  to  inanimate  ob- 
jects. One  June  morning,  I  remember,  a  three-masted 
schooner  lying  in  the  bay  took  fire,  and  had  to  be  set 
adrift.  An  immense  crowd  gathered  on  the  wharves ; 
and  I  saw  many  curious  manifestations  of  grief, — such 
grief,  perhaps,  as  an  infant  feels  for  the  misfortune  of  a 
toy  it  imagines  to  possess  feeling,  but  not  the  less  sin- 
cere because  unreasoning.  As  the  flames  climbed  the 
rigging,  and  the  masts  fell,  the  crowd  moaned  as  though 
looking  upon  some  human  tragedy ;  and  everywhere  one 
could  hear  such  strange  cries  of  pity  as,  "Pautf  mal- 
here T  (poor  unfortunate),  " paw'  diabe!"  .  .  .  "Toutt 
baggdie-y  pou  alle,  casse!"  (All  its  things-to-go-with  are 
broken !)  sobbed  a  girl,  with  tears  streaming  down  her 
cheeks.  .  .  .  She  seemed  to  believe  it  was  alive.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  And  day  by  day  the  artlessness  of  this  exotic 
humanity  touches  you  more ; — day  by  day  this  savage, 
somnolent,  splendid  Nature — delighting  in  furious  col- 
or— bewitches  you  more.  Already  the  anticipated  ne- 
cessity of  having  to  leave  it  all  some  day — the  far-seen 
pain  of  bidding  it  farewell — weighs  upon  you,  even  in 
dreams. 

II. 

READER,  if  you  be  of  those  who  have  longed  in  vain 
for  a  glimpse  of  that  tropic  world, — tales  of  whose  beau- 
ty charmed  your  childhood,  and  made  stronger  upon 
you  that  weird  mesmerism  of  the  sea  which  pulls  at  the 
heart  of  a  boy, — one  who  had  longed  like  you,  and  who, 
chance-led,  beheld  at  last  the  fulfilment  of  the  wish,  can 
swear  to  you  that  the  magnificence  of  the  -reality  far 
excels  the  imagining.  Those  who  know  only  the  lands 
in  which  all  processes  for  the  satisfaction  of  human 
wants  have  been  perfected  under  the  terrible  stimulus  of 
necessity,  can  little  guess  the  witchery  of  that  Nature 


"Pa  combine  ,cte!"  385 

ruling  the  zones  of  color  and  of  light.  Within  their  pri- 
meval circles,  the  earth  remains  radiant  and  young  as  in 
that  preglacial  time  whereof  some  transmitted  memory 
may  have  created  the  hundred  traditions  of  an  Age  of 
Gold.  And  the  prediction  of  a  paradise  to  come, — a 
phantom  realm  of  rest  and  perpetual  light :  may  this  not 
have  been  but  a  sum  of  the  remembrances  and  the  yearn- 
ings of  man  first  exiled  from  his  heritage,  —  a  dream 
born  of  the  great  nostalgia  of  races  migrating  to  people 
the  pallid  North  ? .  .  , 

.  .  .  But  with  the  realization  of  the  hope  to  know  this 
magical  Nature  you  learn  that  the  actuality  varies  from 
the  preconceived  ideal  otherwise  than  in 'surpassing  it. 
Unless  you  enter  the  torrid  world  equipped  with  sci- 
entific knowledge  extraordinary,  your  anticipations  are 
likely  to  be  at  fault.  Perhaps  you  had  pictured  to  your- 
self the  effect  of  perpetual  summer  as  a  physical  de- 
light,— something  like  an  indefinite  prolongation  of  the 
fairest  summer  weather  ever  enjoyed  at  home.  Proba- 
bly you  had  heard  of  fevers,  risks  of  acclimatization,  in- 
tense heat,  and  a  swarming  of  venomous  creatures ;  but 
you  may  nevertheless  believe  you  know  what  precautions 
to  take ;  and  published  statistics  of  climatic  temperature 
may  have  persuaded  you  that  the  heat  is  not  difficult  to 
bear.  By  that  enervation  to  which  all  white  dwellers  in 
the  tropics  are  subject  you  may  have  understood  a  pleas- 
ant languor,  —  a  painless  disinclination  to  effort  in  a 
country  where  physical  effort  is  less  needed  than  else- 
where,— a  soft  temptation  to  idle  away  the  hours  in  a 
hammock,  under  the  shade  of  giant  trees.  Perhaps  you 
have  read,  with  eyes  of  faith,  that  torpor  of  the  body 
is  favorable  to  activity  of  the  mind,  an-d  therefore  be- 
lieve that  the  intellectual  powers  can  be  stimulated  and 
strengthened  by  tropical  influences : — you  suppose  that 
enervation  will  reveal  itself  only  as  a  beatific  indolence 


386  Martinique  Sketches. 

which  will  leave  the  brain  free  to  think  with  lucidity, 
or  to  revel  in  romantic  dreams. 


III. 

You  are  not  at  first  undeceived ; — the  disillusion  is  long 
delayed.  Doubtless  you  have  read  the  delicious  idyl  of 
Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre  (this  is  not  Mauritius,  but  the 
old  life  of  Mauritius  was  wellnigh  the  same) ;  and  you  look 
for  idyllic  personages  among  the  beautiful  humanity  about 
you, — for  idyllic  scenes  among  the  mornes  shadowed  by 
primeval  forest,  and  the  valleys  threaded  by  a  hundred 
brooks.  I  know  not  whether  the  faces  and  forms  that 
you  seek  will  be  revealed  to  you; — but  you  will  not  be 
able  to  complain  for  the  lack  of  idyllic  loveliness  in 
the  commonest  landscape.  Whatever  artistic  knowledge 
you  possess  will  merely  teach  you  the  more  to  wonder  at 
the  luxuriant  purple  of  the  sea,  the  violet  opulence  of  the 
sky,  the  violent  beauty  of  foliage  greens,  the  lilac  tints  of 
evening,  and  the  color-enchantments  distance  gives  in  an 
atmosphere  full  of  iridescent  power, — the  amethysts  and 
agates,  the  pearls  and  ghostly  golds,  of  far  mountain- 
ings.  Never,  you  imagine,  never  could  one  tire  of  wan- 
dering through  those  marvellous  valleys, — of  climbing  the 
silent  roads  under  emeraldine  shadow  to  heights  from 
which  the  city  seems  but  a  few  inches  long,  and  the 
moored  ships  tinier  than  gnats  that  cling  to  a  mirror, — 
or  of  swimming  in  that  blue  bay  whose  clear  flood  stays 
warm  through  all  the  year.*  Or,  standing  alone,  in  some 
aisle  of  colossal  palms,  where  humming-birds  are  flashing 

*  Rufz  remarks  that  the  first  effect  of  this  climate  of  the  Antilles 
is  a  sort  of  general  physical  excitement,  an  exaltation,  a  sense  of  un- 
accustomed strength, — which  begets  the  desire  of  immediate  action 
to  discharge  the  surplus  of  nervous  force.  "  Then  all  distances  seem 
brief;  —  the  greatest  fatigues  are  braved  without  hesitation."— 
Etudes. 


"Pa  combine,  clti!"  387 

and  shooting  like  a  showering  of  jewel-fires,  you  feel  how 
weak  the  skill  of  poet  or  painter  to  fix  the  sensation  of 
that  white -pillared  imperial  splendor; — and  you  think 
you  know  why  Creoles  exiled  by  necessity  to  colder  lands 
may  sicken  for  love  of  their  own, — die  of  home-yearning, 
as  did  many  a  one  in  far  Louisiana,  after  the  political 
tragedies  of  1848.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  But  you  are  not  a  Creole,  and  must  pay  tribute  of 
suffering  to  the  climate  of  the  tropics.  You  will  have  to 
learn  that  a  temperature  of  90°  Fahr.  in  the  tropics  is  by 
no  means  the  same  thing  as  90°  Fahr.  in  Europe  or  the 
United  States  ; — that  the  mornes  cannot  be  climbed  with 
safety  during  the  hotter  hours  of  the  afternoon  ; — that  by 
taking  a  long  walk  you  incur  serious  danger  of  catching 
a  fever ; — that  to  enter  the  high  woods,  a  path  must  be 
hewn  with  the  cutlass  through  the  creepers  and  vines 
and  undergrowth, — among  snakes,  venomous  insects,  ven- 
omous plants,  and  malarial  exhalations  ; — that  the  finest 
blown  dust  is  full  of  irritant  and  invisible  enemies ; — that 
it  is  folly  to  seek  repose  on  a  sward,  or  in  the  shade  of 
trees,  —  particularly  under  tamarinds.  Only  after  you 
have  by  experience  become  well  convinced  of  these 
facts  can  you  begin  to  comprehend  something  general 
in  regard  to  West  Indian  conditions  of  life. 


IV. 

.  .  .  SLOWLY  the  knowledge  comes.  .  .  .  For  months 
the  vitality  of  a  strong  European  (the  American  con- 
stitution bears  the  test  even  better)  may  resist  the  de- 
bilitating climate :  perhaps  the  stranger  will  flatter  him- 
self that,  like  men  habituated  to  heavy  labor  in  stifling 
warmth, — those  toiling  in  mines,  in  founderies,  in  engine- 
rooms  of  ships,  at  iron -furnaces,  —  so  he  too  may  be- 
come accustomed,  without  losing  his  strength,  to  the 
continuous  draining  of  the  pores,  to  the  exhausting  force 


388  Martinique  Sketches. 

of  thfs  strange  motionless  heat  which  compels  change 
of  clothing  many  times  a  day.  But  gradually  he  finds 
that  it  is  not  heat  alone  which  is  debilitating  him,  but 
the  weight  and  septic  nature  of  an  atmosphere  charged 
with  vapor,  with  electricity,  with  unknown  agents  not  less 
inimical  to  human  existence  than  propitious  to  vegetal 
luxuriance.  If  he  has  learned  those  rules  of  careful  liv- 
ing which  served  him  well  in  a  temperate  climate,  he 
will  not  be  likely  to  abandon  them  among  his  new  sur- 
roundings ;  and  they  will  help  him,  no  doubt, — particu- 
larly if  he  be  prudent  enough  to  avoid  the  sea-coast  at 
night,  and  all  exposure  to  dews  or  early  morning  mists, 
and  all  severe  physical  strain.  Nevertheless,  he  be- 
comes slowly  conscious  of  changes  extraordinary  going 
on  within  him, — in  especial,  a  continual  sensation  of 
weight  in  the  brain,  daily  growing,  and  compelling  fre- 
quent repose  ; — also  a  curjous  heightening  of  nervous 
sensibility  to  atmospheric  changes,  to  tastes  and  odors, 
to  pleasure  and  pain.  Total  loss  of  appetite  soon  teach- 
es him  to  follow  the  local  custom  of  eating  nothing  solid 
before  mid-day,  and  enables  him  to  divine  how  largely 
the  necessity  for  caloric  enters  into  the  food-consump- 
tion of  northern  races.  He  becomes  abstemious,  eats 
sparingly,  and  discovers  his  palate  to  have  become  oddly 
exacting — finds  that  certain  fruits  and  drinks  are  indeed, 
as  the  Creoles  assert,  appropriate  only  to  particular  phys- 
ical conditions  corresponding  with  particular  hours  of 
the  day.  Corossole  is  only  to  be  eaten  in  the  morning, 
after  black  coffee ; — vermouth  is  good  to  drink  only  be- 
tween the  hours  of  nine  and  half-past  ten ; — rum  or 
other  strong  liquor  only  before  meals  or  after  fatigue ; — 
claret  or  wine  only  during  a  repast,  and  then  very  spar- 
ingly,— for,  strangely  enough,  wine  is  found  to  be  injuri- 
ous in  a  country  where  stronger  liquors  are  considered 
among  the  prime  necessaries  of  existence. 

And  he  expected,  at  the  worst,  to  feel   lazy,  to  lose 


'  *  Pa  combine,  cht  /  "  3  89 

some  physical  energy !  But  this  is  no  mere  languor 
which  now  begins  to  oppress  him; — it  is  a  sense  of 
vital  exhaustion  painful  as  the  misery  of  convalescence : 
the  least  effort  provokes  a  perspiration  profuse  enough 
to  saturate  clothing,  an'd  the  limbs  ache  as  from  muscu- 
lar overstrain  ;  —  the  lightest  attire  feels  almost  insup- 
portable ; — the  idea  of  sleeping  even  under  a  sheet  is 
torture,  for  the  weight  of  a  silken  handkerchief  is  dis- 
comfort. One  wishes  one  could  live  as  a  savage, — 
naked  in  the  heat.  One  burns  with  a  thirst  impossible 
to  assuage — feels  a  desire  for  stimulants,  a  sense  of  diffi- 
culty in  breathing,  occasional  quickenings  of  the  heart's 
action  so  violent  as  to  alarm.  Then  comes  at  last  the 
absolute  dread  of  physical  exertion.  Some  slight  relief 
might  be  obtained,  no  doubt,  by  resigning  oneself  forth- 
with to  adopt  the  gentle  indolent  manners  of  the  white 
Creoles,  who  do  not  walk  when  it  is  possible  to  ride,  and 
never  ride  if  it  is  equally  convenient  to  drive  ; — but  the 
northern  nature  generally  refuses  to  accept  this  ultimate 
necessity  without  a  protracted  and  painful  struggle. 

.  . .  Not  even  then  has  the  stranger  fully  divined  the  evil 
power  of  this  tropical  climate,  which  remodels  the  char- 
acters of  races  within  a  couple  of  generations, — chang- 
ing the  shape  of  the  skeleton, — deepening  the  cavities  of 
the  orbits  to  protect  the  eye  from  the  flood  of  light, — trans- 
forming the  blood, — darkening  the  skin.  Following  upon 
the  nervous  modifications  of  the  first  few  months  come 
modifications  and  changes  of  a  yet  graver  kind ; — with 
the  loss  of  bodily  energy  ensues  a  more  than  correspond- 
ing loss  of  mental  activity  and  strength.  The  whole 
range  of  thought  diminishes,  contracts, — shrinks  to  that 
narrowest  of  circles  which  surrounds  the  physical  self, 
the  inner  ring  of  merely  material  sensation  :  the  memory 
weakens  appallingly ; — the  mind  operates  faintly,  slow- 
ly, incoherently, — almost  as  in  dreams.  Serious  reading, 
vigorous  thinking,  become  impossible.  You  doze  over 


390  Martinique  Sketches. 

the  most  important  project; — you  fall  fast  asleep  over 
the  most  fascinating  of  books. 

Then  comes  the  vain  revolt,  the  fruitless  desperate 
striving  with  this  occult  power  which  numbs  the  mem- 
ory and  enchants  the  will.  Against  the  set  resolve  to 
think,  to  act,  to  study,  there  is  a  hostile  rush  of  unfa- 
miliar pain  to  the  temples,  to  the  eyes,  to  the  nerve  cen- 
tres of  the  brain ;  and  a  great  weight  is  somewhere  in 
the  head,  always  growing  heavier :  then  comes  a  drowsi- 
ness that  overpowers  and  stupefies,  like  the  effect  of  a 
narcotic.  And  this  obligation  to  sleep,  to  sink  into 
coma,  will  impose  itself  just  so  surely  as  you  venture  to 
attempt  any  mental  work  in  leisure  hours,  after  the  noon 
repast,  or  during  the  heat  of  the  afternoon.  Yet  at  night 
you  can  scarcely  sleep.  Repose  is  made  feverish  by  a 
still  heat  that  keeps  the  skin  drenched  with  thick  sweat, 
or  by  a  perpetual,  unaccountable,  tingling  and  prickling 
of  the  whole  body-surface.  With  the  approach  of  morn- 
ing the  air  grows  cooler,  and  slumber  comes, — a  slumber 
of  exhaustion,  dreamless  and  sickly  5  and  perhaps  when 
you  would  rise  with  the  sun  you  feel  such  a  dizziness, 
such  a  numbness,  such  a  torpor,  that  only  by  the  most 
intense  effort  can  you  keep  your  feet  for  the  first  five 
minutes.  You  experience  a  sensation  that  recalls  the 
poet's  fancy  of  death -in -life,  or  old  stories  of  sudden 
rising  from  the  grave :  it  is  as  though  all  the  electricity 
of  will  had  ebbed  away, — all  the  vital  force  evaporated, 
in  the  heat  of  the  night.  .  .  . 


V. 

IT  might  be  stated,  I  think,  with  safety,  that  for  a  cer- 
tain class  of  invalids  the  effect  of  the  climate  is  like  a 
powerful  stimulant, — a  tonic  medicine  which  may  pro- 
duce astonishing  results  within  a  fixed  time, — but  which 
if  taken  beyond  that  time  will  prove  dangerous.  After 


"Pa  combine,  chk!"  39  i 

a  certain  number  of  months,  your  first  enthusiasm  with 
your  new  surroundings  dies  out;  —  even  Nature  ceases 
to  affect  the  senses  in  the  same  way:  the  frisson  ceases 
to  come  to  you.  Meanwhile  you  may  have  striven  to 
become  as  much  as  possible  a  part  of  the  exotic  life  into 
which  you  have  entered, — may  have  adopted  its  customs, 
learned  its  language.  But  you  cannot  mix  with  it  men- 
tally ; — you  circulate  only  as  an  oil-drop  in  its  current. 
You  still  feel  yourself  alone. 

The  very  longest  West  Indian  day  is  but  twelve  hours 
fifty-six  minutes  ; — perhaps  your  first  dissatisfaction  was 
evoked  by  the  brevity  of  the  days.  There  is  no  twilight 
whatever ;  and  all  activity  ceases  with  sundown :  there 
is  no  going  outside  of  the  city  after  dark,  because  of 
snakes ; — club  life  here  ends  at  the  hour  it  only  begins 
abroad; — there  is  no  visiting  of  evenings ;  after  the  sev- 
en o'clock  dinner,  every  one  prepares  to  retire.  And  the 
foreigner,  accustomed  to  make  evening  a  time  for  social 
intercourse,  finds  no  small  difficulty  in  resigning  himself 
to  this  habit  of  early  retiring.  The  natural  activity  of  a 
European  or  American  mind  requires  some  intellectual 
exercise,— at  least  some  interchange  of  ideas  with  sym- 
pathetic natures;  the  hours  during  the  suspension  of 
business  after  noon,  or  those  following  the  closing  of 
offices  at  sunset,  are  the  only  ones  in  which  busy  men 
may  find  time  for  such  relaxation ;  and  these  very  hours 
have  been  always  devoted  to  restorative  sleep  by  the 
native  population  ever  since  the  colony  began.  Natu- 
rally, therefore,  the  stranger  dreads  the  coming  of  the 
darkness,  the  inevitable  isolation  of  long  sleepless  hours. 
And  if  he  seek  those  solaces  for  loneliness  which  he  was 
wont  to  seek  at  home, — reading,  study, — he  is  made  to 
comprehend,  as  never  before,  what  the  absence  of  all 
libraries,  lack  of  books,  inaccessibility  of  all  reading- 
matter,  means  for  the  man  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
One  must  send  abroad  to  obtain  even  a  review,  and 
3° 


392  Martinique  Sketches. 

wait  months  for  its  coming.  And  this  mental  starvation 
gnaws  at  the  brain  more  and  more  as  one  feels  less  in- 
clination and  less  capacity  for  effort,  and  as  that  single 
enjoyment,  which  at  first  rendered  a  man  indifferent  to 
other  pleasures, — the  delight  of  being  alone  with  tropi- 
cal Nature, — becomes  more  difficult  to  indulge.  When 
lethargy  has  totally  mastered  habit  and  purpose,  and 
you  must  at  last  confess  yourself  resigned  to  view  Nat- 
ure from  your  chamber,  or  at  best  from  a  carriage  win- 
dow,— then,  indeed,  the  want  of  all  literature  proves  a 
positive  torture.  It  is  not  a  consolation  to  discover  that 
you  are  an  almost  solitary  sufferer, — from  climate  as  well 
as  from  mental  hunger.  With  amazement  and  envy  you 
see  young  girls  passing  to  walk  right  across  the  island 
and  back  before  sunset,  under  burdens  difficult  for  a 
strong  man  to  lift  to  his  shoulder ; — the  same  journey 
on  horseback  would  now  weary  you  for  days.  You  won- 
der of  what  flesh  and  blood  can  these  people  be  made,— 
what  wonderful  vitality  lies  in  those  slender  woman-bod- 
ies, which,  under  the  terrible  sun,  and  despite  their  as- 
tounding expenditure  of  force,  remain  cool  to  the  sight 
and  touch  as  bodies  of  lizards  and  serpents !  And  con- 
trasting this  savage  strength  with  your  own  weakness, 
you  begin  to  understand  better  how  mighty  the  working 
of  those  powers  which  temper  races  and  shape  race  hab- 
its in  accordance  with  environment. 

.  .  .  Ultimately,  if  destined  for  acclimatation,  you  will 
cease  to  suffer  from  these  special  conditions ;  but  ere  this 
can  be,  a  long  period  of  nervous  irritability  must  be  en- 
dured j  and  fevers  must  thin  the  blood,  soften  the  mus- 
cles, transform  the  Northern  tint  of  health  to  a  dead 
brown.  You  will  have  to  learn  that  intellectual  pursuits 
can  be  persisted  in  only  at  risk  of  life ; — that  in  this  part 
of  the  world  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  to  plant  cane  and 
cocoa,  and  make  rum,  and  cultivate  tobacco, — or  open  a 
magazine  for  the  sale  of  Madras  handkerchiefs  and  fou- 


"Pa  combine,  chtr  393 

lards, — and  eat,  drink,  sleep,  perspire.  You  will  under* 
stand  why  the  tropics  settled  by  European  races  produce 
no  sciences,  arts,  or  literature, — why  the  habits  and  the 
thoughts  of  other  centuries  still  prevail  where  Time  it- 
self moves  slowly  as  though  enfeebled  by  the  heat. 

And  with  the  compulsory  indolence  of  your  life,  the 
long  exacerbation  of  the  nervous  system,  will  come  the 
first  pain  of  nostalgia, — the  first  weariness  of  the  tropics. 
It  is  not  that  Nature  can  become  ever  less  lovely  to  your 
sight;  but  that  the  tantalization  of  her  dangerous  beauty, 
which  you  may  enjoy  only  at  a  safe  distance,  exasperates 
at  last.  The  colors  that  at  first  bewitched  will  vex  your 
eyes  by  their  violence ; — the  Creole  life  that  appeared  so 
simple,  so  gentle,  will  reveal  dulnesses  and  discomforts  un- 
dreamed of.  You  will  ask  yourself  how  much  longer  can 
you  endure  the  prodigious  light,  and  the  furnace  heat  of 
blinding  blue  days,  and  the  void  misery  of  sleepless  nights, 
and  the  curse  of  insects,  and  the  sound  of  the  mandibles 
of  enormous  roaches  devouring  the  few  books  in  your  pos- 
session. You  will  grow  weary  of  the  grace  of  the  palms,  of 
the  gemmy  colors  of  the  ever-clouded  peaks,  of  the  sight 
of  the  high  woods  made  impenetrable  by  lianas  and  vines 
and  serpents.  You  will  weary  even  of  the  tepid  sea,  be- 
cause to  enjoy  it  as  a  swimmer  you  must  rise  and  go  out 
at  hours  while  the  morning  air  is  still  chill  and  heavy 
with  miasma; — you  will  weary,  above  all,  of  tropic  fruits, 
and  feel  that  you  would  gladly  pay  a  hundred  francs  for 
the  momentary  pleasure  of  biting  into  one  rosy  juicy 
Northern  apple. 

VI, 

.  .  .  BUT  if  you  believe  this  disillusion  perpetual, — if 
you  fancy  the  old  bewitchment  has  spent  all  its  force 
upon  you, — you  do  not  know  this  Nature.  She  is  not 
done  with  you  yet :  she  has  only  torpefied  your  energies 
a  little.  Of  your  willingness  to  obey  her,  she  takes  no 


394  Martinique  Sketches. 

cognizance; — she  ignores  human  purposes,  knows  only 
molecules  and  their  combinations;  and  the  blind  blood 
in  your  veins, — thick  with  Northern  heat  and  habit, — is 
still  in  dumb  desperate  rebellion  against  her. 

Perhaps  she  will  quell  this  revolt  forever, — thus : — 
One  day,  in  the  second  hour  of  the  afternoon,  a  few 
moments  after  leaving  home,  there  will  come  to  you  a 
sensation  such  as  you  have  never  known  before :  a  sud- 
den weird  fear  of  the  light. 

It  seems  to  you  that  the  blue  sky-fire  is  burning  down 
into  your  brain, — that  the  flare  of  the  white  pavements 
and  yellow  walls  is  piercing  somehow  into  your  life, — 
creating  an  unfamiliar  mental  confusion, — blurring  out 
thought.  ...  Is  the  whole  world  taking  fire  ?  .  .  .  The 
flaming  azure  of  the  sea  dazzles  and  pains  like  a  cruci- 
ble-glow;— the  green  of  the  mornes  flickers  and  blazes 
in  some  amazing  way.  .  ,  .  Then  dizziness  inexpressible : 
you  grope  with  eyes  shut  fast — afraid  to  open  them  again 
in  that  stupefying  torrefaction, — moving  automatically,— 
vaguely  knowing  you  must  get  out  of  the  flaring  and 
flashing, —  somewhere,  anywhere  away  from  the  white 
wrath  of  the  sun,  and  the  green  fire  of  the  hills,  and  the 
monstrous  color  of  the  sea. .  . .  Then,  remembering  noth- 
ing, you  find  yourself  in  bed, — with  an  insupportable 
sense  of  weight  at  the  back  of  the  head, — a  pulse  beat- 
ing furiously, —  and  a  strange  sharp  pain  at  intervals 
stinging  through  your  eyes.  .  .  .  And  the  pain  grows, 
expands, — fills  all  the  skull, — forces  you  to  cry  out, — 
replaces  all  other  sensations  except  a  weak  conscious- 
ness, vanishing  and  recurring,  that  you  are  very  sick, 
more  sick  than  ever  before  in  all  your  life. 

.  .  .  And  with  the  tedious  ebbing  of  the  long  fierce 
fever,  all  the  heat  seems  to  pass  from  your  veins.  You 
can  no  longer  imagine,  as  before,  that  it  would  be  deli- 
cious to  die  of  cold  ; — you  shiver  even  with  all  the  win- 


"Pa  combine,  che  T  39$ 

dows  closed; — you  feel  currents  of  air, — imperceptible 
to  nerves  in  a  natural  condition, — which  shock  like  a 
dash  of  cold  water,  whenever  doors  are  opened  and 
closed;  the  very  moisture  upon  your  forehead  is  icy. 
What  you  now  wish  for  are  stimulants  and  warmth. 
Your  blood  has  been  changed ; — tropic  Nature  has  been 
good  to  you :  she  is  preparing  you  to  dwell  with  her. 

.  .  .  Gradually,  under  the  kind  nursing  of  those  col- 
ored people, — among  whom,  as  a  stranger,  your  lot  will 
probably  be  cast, — you  recover  strength  ;  and  perhaps  it 
will  seem  to  you  that  the  pain  of  lying  a  while  in  the 
Shadow  of  Death  is  more  than  compensated  by  this 
rare  and  touching  experience  of  human  goodness.  How 
tirelessly  watchful, — how  naively  sympathetic, — how  ut- 
terly self-sacrificing  these  women-natures  are  !  Patient- 
ly, through  weeks  of  stifling  days  and  sleepless  nights, — 
cruelly  unnatural  to  them,  for  their  life  is  in  the  open 
air, — they  struggle  to  save  without  one  murmur  of  fatigue, 
without  heed  of  their  most  ordinary  physical  wants,  with- 
out a  thought  of  recompense  ; — trusting  to  their  own  skill 
when  the  physician  abandons  hope,  —  climbing  to  the 
woods  for  herbs  when  medicines  prove  without  avail. 
The  dream  of  angels  holds  nothing  sweeter  than  this 
reality  of  woman's  tenderness. 

And  simultaneously  with  the  return  of  force,  you  may 
wonder  whether  this  sickness  has  not  sharpened  your 
senses  in  some  extraordinary  way, — especially  hearing, 
sight,  and  smell.  Once  well  enough  to  be  removed  with- 
out  danger,  you  will  be  taken  up  into  the  mountains 
somewhere, — for  change  of  air;  and  there  it  will  seem 
to  you,  perhaps,  that  never  before  did  you  feel  so  acutely 
the  pleasure  of  perfumes, — of  color-tones, — of  the  tim- 
bre of  voices.  You  have  simply  been  acclimated.  . . .  And 
suddenly  the  old  fascination  of  tropic  Nature  seizes  you 
again, — more  strongly  than  in  the  first  days  ; — the  frisson 
of  delight  returns ;  the  joy  of  it  thrills  through  all  your 


396  Martinique  Sketches. 

blood, — making  a  great  fulness  at  your  heart  as  of  unut- 
terable desire  to  give  thanks.  .  .  . 


VII. 

.  .  .  MY  friend  Felicien  had  come  to  the  colony  fresh 
from  the  region  of  the  Vosges,  with  the  muscles  and 
energies  of  a  mountaineer,  and  cheeks  pink  as  a  French 
country-girl's ; — he  had  never  seemed  to  me  physically 
adapted  for  acclimation ;  and  I  feared  much  for  him  on 
hearing  of  his  first  serious  illness.  Then  the  news  of 
his  convalescence  came  to  me  as  a  grateful  surprise. 
But  I  did  not  feel  reassured  by  his  appearance  the  first 
evening  I  called  at  the  little  house  to  which  he  had  been 
removed,  on  the  brow  of  a  green  height  overlooking  the 
town.  I  found  him  seated  in  a  berceuse  on  the  veranda. 
How  wan  he  was,  and  how  spectral  his  smile  of  wel- 
come,— as  he  held  out  to  me  a  hand  that  sieemed  all  of 
bone ! 

.  .  .  We  chatted  there  a  while.  It  had  been  one  of 
those  tropic  days  whose  charm  interpenetrates  and 
blends  with  all  the  subtler  life  of  sensation,  and  becomes 
a  luminous  part  of  it  forever, — steeping  all  after-dreams 
of  ideal  peace  in  supernal  glory  of  color, — transfiguring 
all  fancies  of  the  pure  joy  of  being.  Azure  to  the  sea- 
line  the  sky  had  remained  since  morning  ;  and  the  trade- 
wind,  warm  as  a  caress,  never  brought  even  one  gauzy 
cloud  to  veil  the  naked  beauty  of  the  peaks. 

And  the  sun  was  yellowing, — as  only  over  the  trop- 
ics he  yellows  to  his  death.  Lilac  tones  slowly  spread 
through  sea  and  heaven  from  the  west ; — mornes  fac- 
ing the  light  began  to  take  wondrous  glowing  color, — a 
tone  of  green  so  fiery  that  it  looked  as  though  all  the 
rich  sap  of  their  woods  were  phosphorescing.  Shadows 
blued ;  —  far  peaks  took  tinting  that  scarcely  seemed 
of  earth, — iridescent  violets  and  purples  interchanging 


her  397 

through  vapor  of  gold.  .  .  .  Such  the  colors  of  the  ca- 
rangue,  when  the  beautiful  tropic  fish  is  turned  in  the 
light,  and  its  gem-greens  shift  to  rich  azure  and  prism- 
purple. 

Reclining  in  our  chairs,  we  watched  the  strange  splen- 
dor from  the  veranda  of  the  little  cottage, —  saw  the 
peaked  land  slowly  steep  itself  in  the  aureate  glow,— 
the  changing  color  of  the  verdured  mornes,  and  of  the 
sweep  of  circling  sea.  Tiny  birds,  bosomed  with  fire, 
were  shooting  by  in  long  curves,  like  embers  flung  by 
invisible  hands.  From  far  below,  the  murmur  of  the 
city  rose  to  us, — a  stormy  hum.  So  motionless  we  re- 
mained that  the  green  and  gray  lizards  were  putting  out 
their  heads  from  behind  the  columns  of  the  veranda  to 
stare  at  us,  —  as  if  wondering  whether  we  were  really 
alive.  I  turned  my  head  suddenly  to  look  at  two  queer 
butterflies ;  and  all  the  lizards  hid  themselves  again. 
Papillon-lanmb, — Death's  butterflies, — these  were  called 
in  the  speech  of  the  people  :  their  broad  wings  were 
black  like  blackest  velvet; — as  they  fluttered  against 
the  yellow  light,  they  looked  like  silhouettes  of  butter- 
flies. Always  through  my  memory  of  that  wondrous 
evening, — when  I  little  thought  I  was  seeing  my  friend's 
face  for  the  last  time, — there  slowly  passes  the  black 
palpitation  of  those  wings.  .  .  . 

...  I  had  been  chatting  with  Felicien  about  various 
things  which  I  thought  might  have  a  cheerful  interest 
for  him;  and  more  than  once  I  had  been  happy  to  see 
him  smile.  .  .  .  But  our  converse  waned.  The  ever-mag- 
nifying splendor  before  us  had  been  mesmerizing  our 
senses, — slowly  overpowering  our  wills  with  the  amaze- 
ment of  its  beauty.  Then,  as  the  sun's  disk — enor- 
mous,— blinding  gold — touched  the  lilac  flood,  and  the 
stupendous  orange  glow  flamed  up  to  the  very  zenith, 
we  found  ourselves  awed  at  last  into  silence. 

The   orange   in   the   west   deepened    into   vermilion. 


398  Martinique  Sketches. 

Softly  and  very  swiftly  night  rose  like  an  indigo  exha- 
lation from  the  land, —  filling  the  valleys,  flooding  the 
gorges,  blackening  the  woods,  leaving  only  the  points  of 
the  peaks  a  while  to  catch  the  crimson  glow.  Forests 
and  fields  began  to  utter  a  rushing  sound  as  of  torrents, 
always  deepening, — made  up  of  the  instrumentation  and 
the  voices  of  numberless  little  beings  :  clangings  as  of 
hammered  iron,  ringings  as  of  dropping  silver  upon  a 
stone,  the  dry  bleatings  of  the  cabritt-bois,  and  the  chir- 
ruping of  tree-frogs,  and  the  ki-i-i-i-i-i-i  of  crickets.  Im- 
mense trembling  sparks  began  to  rise  and  fall  among 
the  shadows, — twinkling  out  and  disappearing  all  mys- 
teriously: these  were  the  fire -flies  awakening.  Then 
about  the  branches  of  the  bois-canon  black  shapes  began 
to  hover,  which  were  not  birds — shapes  flitting  proces- 
sionally  without  any  noise;  each  one  in  turn  resting  a 
moment  as  to  nibble  something  at  the  end  of  a  bough ; — 
then  yielding  place  to  another,  and  circling  away,  to  re- 
turn again  from  the  other  side  .  .  .  the  guimbos,  the  great 
bats. 

But  we  were  silent,  with  the  emotion  of  sunset  still 
upon  us :  that  ghostly  emotion  which  is  the  transmitted 
experience  of  a  race, — the  sum  of  ancestral  experiences 
innumerable,  —  the  mingled  joy  and  pain  of  a  million 
years.  .  .  .  Suddenly  a  sweet  voice  pierced  the  still- 
ness,— pleading : — 

— "Pa  combine,  chef — pa  combine  conm  faf"  (Do  not 
think,  dear  ! — do  not  think  like  that !) 

.  .  .  Only  less  beautiful  than  the  sunset  she  seemed, 
this  slender  half-breed,  who  had  come  all  unperceived 
behind  us,  treading  soundlessly  with  her  slim  bare  feet. 
.  .  .  "And  you,  Missie,"  she  said  to  me,  in  a  tone  of 
gentle  reproach  ; — "  you  are  his  friend  !  why  do  you  let 
him  think  ?  It  is  thinking  that  will  prevent  him  getting 
well." 

Combine  in  Creole  signifies  to  think  intently,  and  there- 


' ' Pa  combing,  che  / "  399 

fore  to  be  unhappy, — because,  with  this  artless  race,  as 
with  children,  to  think  intensely  about  anything  is  pos- 
sible only  under  great  stress  of  suffering. 

—"Pa  combine, —  non,  che"  she  repeated,  plaintively, 
stroking  Felicien's  hair.  "  It  is  thinking  that  makes  us 
old. .  . .  And  it  is  time  to  bid  your  friend  good-night.".  .  . 

— "She  is  so  good,"  said  Felicien,  smiling  to  make 
her  pleased  ;— "  I  could  never  tell  you  how  good.  But 
she  does  not  understand.  She  believes  I  suffer  if  I  am 
silent.  She  is  contented  only  when  she  sees  me  laugh ; 
and  so  she  will  tell  me  Creole  stories  by  the  hour  to  keep 
me  amused,  as  if  I  were  a  child.".  .  . 

As  he  spoke  she  slipped  an  arm  about  his  neck. 

— "Doudoux"  she  persisted;  —  and  her  voice  was  a 
dove's  coo, — "Si  ou  ainmein  moin,pa  combine — non  /" 

And  in  her  strange  exotic  beauty,  her  savage  grace, 
her  supple  caress,  the  velvet  witchery  of  her  eyes, — it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  beheld  a  something  imaged,  not  of 
herself,  nor  of  the  moment  only, — a  something  weirdly 
sensuous  :  the  Spirit  of  tropic  Nature  made  golden  flesh, 
and  murmuring  to  each  lured  wanderer:  —  "If  thou 
wouldst  love  me,  do  not  think!".  .  . 


YE. 

i. 

ALMOST  every  night,  just  before  bedtime,  I  hear  some 
group  of  children  in  the  street  telling  stories  to  each 
other.  Stories,  enigmas  or  tim-tim,  and  songs,  and 
round  games,  are  the  joy  of  child-life  here, — whether 
rich  or  poor.  I  am  particularly  fond  of  listening  to  the 
stories,  —  which  seem  to  me  the  oddest  stories  I  ever 
heard. 

I  succeeded  in  getting  several  dictated  to  me,  so  that 
I  could  write  them ; — others  were  written  for  me  by 
Creole  friends,  with  better  success.  To  obtain  them  in 
all  their  original  simplicity  and  naive  humor  of  detail, 
one  should  be  able  to  write  them  down  in  short-hand  as 
fast  as  they  are  related :  they  lose  greatly  in  the  slow 
process  of  dictation.  The  simple  mind  of  the  native 
story-teller,  child  or  adult,  is  seriously  tried  by  the  in- 
evitable interruptions  and  restraints  of  the  dictation 
method ; — the  reciter  loses  spirit,  becomes  soon  weary, 
and  purposely  shortens  the  narrative  to  finish  the  task 
as  soon  as  possible.  It  seems  painful  to  such  a  one  to 
repeat  a  phrase  more  than  once, — -at  least  in  the  same 
way ;  while  frequent  questioning  may  irritate  the  most 
good-natured  in  a  degree  that  shows  how  painful  to  the 
untrained  brain  may  be  the  exercise  of  memory  and 
steady  control  of  imagination  required  for  continuous 
dictation.  By  patience,  however,  I  succeeded  in  obtain- 
ing many  curiosities  of  oral  literature, — representing  a 
group  of  stories  which,  whatever  their  primal  origin,  have 


F/.  401 

been  so  changed  by  local  thought  and  coloring  as  to 
form  a  distinctively  Martinique  folk-tale  circle.  Among 
them  are  several  especially  popular  with  the  children  of 
my  neighborhood ;  and  I  notice  that  almost  every  nar- 
rator embellishes  the  original  plot  with  details  of  his 
own,  which  he  varies  at  pleasure. 

I  submit  a  free  rendering  of  one  of  these  tales, — the 
history  of  Ye  and  the  Devil.  The  whole  story  of  Ye 
would  form  a  large  book, — so  numerous  the  list  of  his 
adventures ;  and  this  adventure  seems  to  me  the  most 
characteristic  of  all.  Ye  is  the  most  curious  figure  in 
Martinique  folk-lore.  Ye  is  the  typical  Bitaco,  —  or 
mountain  negro  of  the  lazy  kind, — the  country  black 
whom  city  blacks  love  to  poke  fun  at.  As  for  the 
Devil  of  Martinique  folk-lore,  he  resembles  the  travailleur 
at  a  distance ;  but  when  you  get  dangerously  near  him, 
you  find  that  he  has  red  eyes  and  red  hair,  and  two  little 
horns  under  his  chapeau-BacoiM,  and  feet  like  an  ape, 
and  fire  in  his  throat.  Y  ka  sam  yon  goubs,  goubs  ma- 
caque. .  .  . 

II. 

Q a  qui pa  te  connaitt  Yt?  .  .  .  Who  is  there  in  all  Mar- 
tinique who  never  heard  of  Ye  ?  Everybody  used  to 
know  the  old  rascal.  He  had  every  fault  under  the 
sun  j — he  was  the  laziest  negro  in  tfce  whole  island ;  he 
was  the  biggest  glutton  in  the  whole  world.  He  had  an 
amazing  number*  of  children;  and  they  were  most  of 
the  time  all  half  dead  for  hunger. 

Well,  one  day  Ye  went  out  to  the  woods  to  look  for 
something  to  eat.  And  he  walked  through  the  woods 
nearly  all  day,  till  he  became  ever  so  tired;  but  he  could 
not  find  anything  to  eat.  He  was  just  going  to  give  up 
the  search,  when  he  heard  a  queer  crackling  noise,— 

*  In  the  patois,  "yon  rafale  yc he  " — a  "whirlwind  of  children." 


4O2  Martinique  Sketches. 

at  no  great  distance.  He  went  to  see  what  it  was, — 
hiding  himself  behind  the  big  trees  as  he  got  nearer 
to  it. 

All  at  once  he  came  to  a  little  hollow  in  the  woods, 
and  saw  a  great  fire  burning  there, — and  he  saw  a  Devil 
sitting  beside  the  fire.  The  Devil  was  roasting  a  great 
heap  of  snails ;  and  the  sound  Ye  had  heard  was  the 
crackling  of  the  snail-shells.  The  Devil  seemed  to  be 
very  old ; — he  was  sitting  on  the  trunk  of  a  bread-fruit 
tree ;  and  Ye  took  a  good  long  look  at  him.  After  Ye 
had  watched  him  for  a  while,  Ye  found  out  that  the  old 
Devil  was  quite  blind. 

The  Devil  had  a  big  calabash  in  his  hand  full  of  fe- 
roce, — that  is  to  say,  boiled  salt  codfish  and  manioc  flour, 
with  ever  so  many  pimentos  (epi  en  pile  pimeni], — just 
what  negroes  like  Ye  are  most  fond  of.  And  the  Devil 
seemed  to  be  very  hungry ;  and  the  food  was  going  so 
fast  down  his  throat  that  it  made  Ye  unhappy  to  see  it 
disappearing.  It  made  him  so  unhappy  that  he  felt  at 
last  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  steal  from  the 
old  blind  Devil.  He  crept  quite  close  up  to  the  Devil 
without  making  any  noise,  and  began  to  rob  him.  Every 
time  the  Devil  would  lift  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  Ye  would 
slip  his  own  fingers  into  the  calabash,  and  snatch  a  piece. 
The  old  Devil  did  not  even  look  puzzled ; — he  did  not 
seem  to  know  anything ;  and  Ye  thought  to  himself  that 
the  old  Devil  was  a  great  fool.  He  began  to  get  more 
and  more  courage ; — he  took  bigger  and  bigger  handfuls 
out  of  the  calabash  ; — he  ate  even  faster  than  the  Devil 
could  eat.  At  last  there  was  only  one  little  bit  left  in 
the  calabash.  Ye  put  out  his  hand  to  take  it, — and  all 
of  a  sudden  the  Devil  made  a  grab  at  Ye's  hand  and 
caught  it !  Ye  was  so  frightened  he  could  not  even  cry 
out,  Aie-ydie  !  The  Devil  finished  the  last  morsel,  threw 
down  the  calabash,  and  said  to  Ye  in  a  terrible  voice  : — 
"Aft,  saff! — ou  c'est  ta  moin  /"  (I've  got  you  now,  you 


Yf.  403 

glutton ; — you  belong  to  me !)  Then  he  jumped  on  Ye's 
back,  like  a  great  ape,  and  twisted  his  legs  round  Ye's 
neck,  and  cried  out : — 

— "  Carry  me  to  your  cabin, — and  walk  fast !" 
=* 

.  .  .  When  Ye's  poor  children  saw  him  coming,  they 
wondered  what  their  papa  was  carrying  on  his  back. 
They  thought  it  might  be  a  sack  of  bread  or  vegetables 
or  perhaps  a  regime  of  bananas,  —  for  it  was  getting 
dark,  and  they  could  not  see  well.  They  laughed  and 
showed  their  teeth  and  danced  and  screamed :  "  Here's 
papa  coming  with  something  to  eat !  —  papa's  coming 
with  something  to  eat !"  But  when  Ye  had  got  near 
enough  for  them  to  see  what  he  was  carrying,  they 
yelled  and  ran  away  to  hide  themselves.  As  for  the 
poor  mother,  she  could  only  hold  up  her  two  hands  for 
horror. 

When  they  got  into  the  cabin  the  Devil  pointed  to  a 
corner,  and  said  to  Ye  : — "  Put  me  down  there !"  Ye 
put  him  down.  The  Devil  sat  there  in  the  corner  and 
never  moved  or  spoke  all  that  evening  and  all  that  night. 
He  seemed  to  be  a  very  quiet  Devil  indeed.  The  chil- 
dren began  to  look  at  him. 

But  at  breakfast-time,  when  the  poor  mother  had  man- 
aged to  procure  something  for  the  children  to  eat, — just 
some  bread-fruit  and  yams, — the  old  Devil  suddenly  rose 
up  from  his  corner  and  muttered  : — 

— "Manman  mo  !—papa  mo ! — toutt  yche  mb /"  (Mam- 
ma dead  ! — papa  dead  ! — all  the  children  dead  !) 

And  he  blew  his  breath  on  them,  and  they  all  fell 
down  stiff  as  if  they  were  dead — raidi-cadave !  Then 
the  Devil  ate  up  everything  there  was  on  the  table. 
When  he  was  done,  he  filled  the  pots  and  dishes  with 
dirt,  and  blew  his  breath  again  on  Ye  and  all  the  family, 
and  muttered : — 

— "Toutt  moune  leve!"     (Everybody  get  up  !) 


404  Martinique  Sketches. 

Then  they  all  got  up.  Then  he  pointed  to  all  the 
plates  and  dishes  full  of  dirt,  and  said  to  them  : — * 

— "Gobe-moin  fa  /" 

And  they  had  to  gobble  it  all  up,  as  he  told  them. 

After  that  it  was  no  use  trying  to  eat  anything.  Ev- 
ery time  anything  was  cooked,  the  Devil  would  do  the 
same  thing.  It  was  thus  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  and 
the  day  after,  and  so  every  day  for  a  long,  long  time. 

* 

Ye  did  not  know  what  to  do ;  but  his  wife  said  she 
did.  If  she  was  only  a  man,  she  would  soon  get  rid  of 
that  Devil.  "  Ye,"  she  insisted,  "  go  and  see  the  Bon- 
Die  [the  Good-God],  and  ask  him  what  to  do.  I  would 
go  myself  if  I  could ;  but  women  are  not  strong  enough 
to  climb  the  great  morne." 

So  Ye  started  off  very,  very  early  one  morning,  before 
the  peep  of  day,  and  began  to  climb  the  Montagne  Pe- 
lee.  He  climbed  and  walked,  and  walked  and  climbed, 
until  he  got  at  last  to  the  top  of  the  Morne  de  la  Croix.t 
Then  he  knocked  at  the  sky  as  loud  as  he  could  till  the 
Good-God  put  his  head  out  of  a  cloud  and  asked  him 
what  he  wanted  : — 

— "Eh  bien  f—fa  ou  ni,  Ye?  fa  ou  let" 

When  Ye  had  recounted  his  troubles,  the  Good-God 
said : — 

— " Pauv  ma  panv  !  I  knew  it  all  before  you  came, 
Ye.  I  can  tell  you  what  to  do ;  but  I  am  afraid  it  will 
be  no  use— you  will  never  be  able  to  do  it !  Your  glut- 
tony is  going  to  be  the  ruin  of  you,  poor  Ye  !  Still,  you 
can  try.  Now  listen  well  to  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 
First  of  all,  you  must  not  eat  anything  before  you  get 


*  In  the  original: — "  Y  te  ka  monte  assous  tabe-la,  epi  y  te  ka  fai 
caca  adans  toutt  plats-a,  adans  toutt  zassiett-la." 

f  A  peaklet  rising  above  the  verge  of  the  ancient  crater  now  filled 
with  water. 


F/.  405 

home.  Then  when  your  wife  has  the  children's  dinner 
ready,  and  you  see  the  Devil  getting  up,  you  must  cry 
out : — *  Tarn  ni  pou  tarn  ni  be  /'  Then  the  Devil  will 
drop  down  dead.  Don't  forget  not  to  eat  anything — ou 
tanne  /" .  .  . 

Ye  promised  to  remember  all  he  was  told,  and  not  to 
eat  anything  on  his  way  down ; — then  he  said  good-bye 
to  the  Bon-Die'  (bien  conm  y  faut),  and  started.  All  the 
way  he  kept  repeating  the  words  the  Good-God  had  told 
him  :  "Tarn  ni  pou  tarn  ni  be  ! — tarn  ni  pou  tarn  ni  be!" — 
over  and  over  again. 

But  before  reaching  home  he  had  to  cross  a  little 
stream ;  and  on  both  banks  he  saw  wild  guava-bushes 
growing,  with  plenty  of  sour  guavas  upon  them ; — for  it 
was  not  yet  time  for  guavas  to  be  ripe.  Poor  Ye  was 
hungry !  He  did  all  he  could  to  resist  the  temptation, 
but  it  proved  too  much  for  him.  He  broke  all  his  prom- 
ises to  the  Bon-Die :  he  ate  and  ate  and  ate  till  there 
were  no  more  guavas  left, — and  then  he  began  to  eat 
zicaques  and  green  plums,  and  all  sorts  of  nasty  sour 
things,  till  he  could  not  eat  any  more. 

By  the  time  he  got  to  the  cabin  his  teeth  were  so  on 
edge  that  he  could  scarcely  speak  distinctly  enough  to 
tell  his  wife  to  get  the  supper  ready. 

And  so  while  everybody  was  happy,  thinking  that  they 
were  going  to  be  freed  from  their  trouble,  Ye  was  really 
in  no  condition  to  do  anything.  The  moment  the  sup- 
per was  ready,  the  Devil  got  up  from  his  corner  as  usual, 
and  approached  the  table.  Then  Ye  tried  to  speak ; 
but  his  teeth  were  so  on  edge  that  instead  of  say- 
ing,— "  Tarn  ni  pou  tarn  ni  be"  he  could  only  stammer 
out : — 

— "Anni  toque  Diabe-lct,  cagnan" 

This  had  no  effect  on  the  Devil  at  all :  he  seemed  to 
be  used  to  it !  He  blew  his  breath  on  them  all,  sent 
them  to  sleep,  ate  up  all  the  supper,  filled  the  empty 


406  Martinique  Sketches. 

dishes  with  filth,  awoke  Ye  and  his  family,  and  ordered 
them  as  usual : — 

— "  Gobe-moin  faf"     And  they  had  to  gobble  it  up, — 

every  bit  of  it. 

# 

The  family  nearly  died  of  hunger  and  disgust.  Twice 
more  Ye  climbed  the  Montagne  Pelee ;  twice  more  he 
climbed  the  Morne  de  la  Croix ;  twice  more  he  disturbed 
the  poor  Bon-Die,  all  for  nothing ! — since  each  time  on 
his  way  down  he  would  fill  his  paunch  with  all  sorts  of 
nasty  sour  things,  so  that  he  could  not  speak  right.  The 
Devil  remained  in  the  house  night  and  day; — the  poor 
mother  threw  herself  down  on  the  ground,  and  pulled 
out  her  hair, — so  unhappy  she  was  ! 

But  luckily  for  the  poor  woman,  she  had  one  child  as 
cunning  as  a  rat, — *  a  boy  called  Ti  Fonte  (little  Impu- 
dent), who  bore  his  name  well.  When  he  saw  his  moth- 
er crying  so  much,  he  said  to  her  : — 

— "  Mamma,  send  papa  just  once  more  to  see  the 
Good-God  :  I  know  something  to  do  !" 

The  mother  knew  how  cunning  her  boy  was  :  she  felt 
sure  he  meant  something  by  his  words ; — she  sent  old 
Ye  for  the  last  time  to  see  the  Bon-Die. 

Ye  used  always  to  wear  one  of  those  big  long  coats 
they  call  lavalasses  ; — whether  it  was  hot  or  cool,  wet  or 
dry,  he  never  went  out  without  it.  There^were  two  very 
big  pockets  in  it — one  on  each  side.  When  Ti  Fonte 
saw  his  father  getting  ready  to  go,  he  jumpedyta//  into 
one  of  the  pockets  and  hid  himself  there.  Ye  climbed 
all  the  way  to  the  top  of  the  Morne  de  la  Croix  without 
suspecting  anything.  When  he  got  there  the  little  boy 
put  one  of  his  ears  out  of  Ye's  pocket, — so  as  to  hear 
everything  the  Good-God  would  say. 


*  The  great  field-rat  of  Martinique  is,  in  Martinique  folk-lore,  the 
symbol  of  all  cunning,  and  probably  merits  its  reputation. 


Yf.  407 

This  time  he  was  very  angry, — the  Bon-Die  :  he  spoke 
very  crossly ;  he  scolded  Ye  a  great  deal.  But  he  was 
so  kind  for  all  that, — he  was  so  generous  to  good-for- 
nothing  Ye,  that  he  took  the  pains  to  repeat  the  words 
over  and  over  again  for  him  : — "Tarn  ni  pou  tarn  nibe".  .  . 
And  this  time  the  Bon-Die  was  not  talking  to  no  pur- 
pose :  there  was  somebody  there  well  able  to  remember 
what  he  said.  Ti  Fonte  made  the  most  of  his  chance; — 
he  sharpened  that  little  tongue  of  his ;  he  thought  of  his 
mamma  and  all  his  little  brothers  and  sisters  dying  of 
hunger  down  below.  As  for  his  father.  Ye  did  as  he  had 
done  before — stuffed  himself  with  all  the  green  fruit  he 
could  find. 

The  moment  Ye  got  home  and  took  off  his  coat,  Ti 
Fonte'  jumped  out,  plapp !• — and  ran  to  his  mamma,  and 
whispered  :— 

— "Mamma,  get  ready  a  nice,  big  dinner!  —  we  are 
going  to  have  it  all  to  ourselves  to-day :  the  Good- 
God  didn't  talk  for  nothing, —  I  heard  every  word  he 
said  !" 

Then  the  mother  got  ready  a  nice  calalou-crabe,  a  ton- 
ton-banane,  a  matete-cirique, — several  calabashes  of  couss- 
caye,  two  regimes-figucs  (bunches  of  small  bananas), — in 
short,  a  very  fine  dinner  indeed,  with  a  chopine  of  tafia  to 
wash  it  all  well  clown. 

The  Devil  felt  as  sure  of  himself  that  day  as  he  had 
always  felt,  and  got  up  the  moment  everything  was 
ready.  But  Ti  Fonte  got  up  too,  and  yelled  out  just  as 
loud  as  he  could  : — 

— "  Tarn  ni  pou  tarn  ni  be  /" 

At  once  the  Devil  gave  a  scream  so  loud  that  it  could 
be  heard  right  down  to  the  bottom  of  hell, — and  he  fell 
dead. 

Meanwhile,  Ye,  like  the  old  fool  he  was,  kept  trying 
to  say  what  the  Bon-Die  had  told  him,  and  could  only 
mumble : — 


408  Martinique  Sketches. 

— "Anni  toquk  Diabe-la  cagnan  /" 

He  would  never  have  been  able  to  do  anything ; — and 
his  wife  had  a  great  mind  just  to  send  him  to  bed  at 
once,  instead  of  letting  him  sit  down  to  eat  all  those  nice 
things.  But  she  was  a  kind-hearted  soul ;  and  so  she  let 
Ye  stay  and  eat  with  the  children,  though  he  did  not  de- 
serve it.  And  they  all  ate  and  ate,  and  kept  on  eating 
and  filling  themselves  until  daybreak — pauv piti! 

But  during  this  time  the  Devil  had  begun  to  smell 
badly,  and  he  had  become  swollen  so  big  that  Ye  found 
he  could  not  move  him.  Still,  they  knew  they  must  get 
him  out  of  the  way  somehow.  The  children  had  eaten 
so  much  that  they  were  all  full  of  strength — yo  te  plein 
lafoce;  and  Ye  got  a  rope  and  tied  one  end  round  the 
Devil's  foot ;  and  then  he  and  the  children — all  pulling 
together — managed  to  drag  the  Devil  out  of  the  cabin 
and  into  the  bushes,  where  they  left  him  just  like  a  dead 
dog.  They  all  felt  themselves  very  happy  to  be  rid  of 

that  old  Devil. 

# 

But  some  days  after  old  good-for-nothing  Ye  went  off 
to  hunt  for  birds.  He  had  a  whole  lot  of  arrows  with 
him.  He  suddenly  remembered  the  Devil,  and  thought 
he  would  like  to  take  one  more  look  at  him.  And  he  did. 

Fouinq  !  what  a  sight !  The  Devil's  belly  had  swelled 
up  like  a  morne :  it  was  yellow  and  blue  and  green, — 
looked  as  if  it  was  going  to  burst.  And  Ye,  like  the  old 
fool  he  always  was,  shot  an  arrow  up  in  the  air,  so  that 
it  fell  down  and  stuck  into  the  Devil's  belly.  Then  he 
wanted  to  get  the  arrow,  and  he  climbed  up  on  the  Devil, 
and  pulled  and  pulled  till  he  got  the  arrow  out.  Then 
he  put  the  point  of  the  arrow  to  his  nose, — just  to  see 
what  sort  of  a  smell  dead  Devils  had. 

The  moment  he  did  that,  his  nose  swelled  up  as  big 
as  the  refinery-pot  of  a  sugar-plantation. 


Ye.  409 

Ye  could  scarcely  walk  for  the  weight  of  his  nose ;  but 
he  had  to  go  and  see  the  Bon-Die  again.  The  Bon-Die 
said  to  him  : — 

— "Ah !  Ye,  my  poor  Ye,  you  will  live  and  die  a  fool ! — 
you  are  certainly  the  biggest  fool  in  the  whole  world  ! .  . . 
Still,  I  must  try  to  do  something  for  you ; — I'll  help  you 
anyhow  to  get  rid  of  that  nose  ! .  . .  I'll  tell  you  how  to  do 
it.  To-morrow  morning,  very  early,  get  up  and  take  a 
big  taya  [whip],  "and  beat  all  the  bushes  well,  and  drive 
all  the  birds  to  the  Roche  de  la  Caravelle.  Then  you 
must  tell  them  that  I,  the  Bon-Die,  want  them  to  take  off 
their  bills  and  feathers,  and  take  a  good  bath  in  the  sea. 
While  they  are  bathing,  you  can  choose  a  nose  for  your- 
self out  of  the  heap  of  bills  there." 

Poor  Ye  did  just  as  the  Good -God  told  him;  and 
while  the  birds  were  bathing,  he  picked  out  a  nose  for 
himself  from  the  heap  of  beaks, — and  left  his  own  re- 
finery-pot in  its  place. 

The  nose  he  took  was  the  -nose  of  the  coulivicou* 
And  that  is  why  the  coulivicou  always  looks  so  much 
ashamed  of  himself  even  to  this  day. 


III. 

.  .  .  POOR  Ye ! — you  still  live  for  me  only  too  vividly 
outside  of  those  strange  folk-tales  of  eating  and  of  drink- 
ing which  so  cruelly  reveal  the  long  slave-hunger  of  your 
race.  For  I  have  seen  you  cutting  cane  on  peak  slopes 
above  the  clouds  ; — I  have  seen  you  climbing  from  plan- 
tation to  plantation  with  your  cutlass  in  your  hand,  watch- 
ing for  snakes  as  you  wander  to  look  for  work,  when 

*  The  coulivicou,  or  "  Colin  Vicou,"  is  a  Martinique  bird  with  a 
long  meagre  body,  and  an  enormous  bill.  It  has  a  very  tristful  and 
taciturn  expression.  .  .  .  Maig  conm  yon  coulivicou, "  thin  as  a  cou- 
livicou," is  a  popular  comparison  for  the  appearance  of  anybody 
much  reduced  by  sickness. 


41  o  Martinique  Sketches. 

starvation  forces  you  to  obey  a  master,  though  born  with 
the  resentment  of  centuries  against  all  masters  ; — I  have 
seen  you  prefer  to  carry  two  hundred-weight  of  bananas 
twenty  miles  to  market,  rather  than  labor  in  the  fields  ;— 
I  have  seen  you  ascending  through  serpent -swarming 
woods  to  some  dead  crater  to  find  a  cabbage-palm, — and 
always  hungry, — and  always  shiftless !  And  you  are  still 
a  great  fool,  poor  Ye  ! — and  you  have  still  your  swarm  of 
children, — your  rafale yche; — and  they  a*re  famished;  for 
you  have  taken  into  your  ajoupa  a  Devil  who  devours 
even  more  than  you  can  earn, —  even  your  heart,  and 
your  splendid  muscles,  and  your  poor  artless  brain, — 
the  Devil  Tafia !  .  .  .  And  there  is  no  Bon-Die  to  help  you 
rid  yourself  of  him  now :  for  the  only  Bon-Die  you  ever 
really  had,  your  old  Creole  master,  cannot  care  for  you 
any  more,  and  you  cannot  care  for  yourself.  Merciless- 
ly moral,  the  will  of  this  enlightened  century  has  abol- 
ished forever  that  patriarchal  power  which  brought  you 
up  strong  and  healthy  on  scanty  fare,  and  scourged  you 
into  its  own  idea  of  righteousness,  yet  kept  you  inno- 
cent as  a  child  of  the  law  of  the  struggle  for  life.  But 
you  feel  that  law  now ; — you  are  a  citizen  of  the  Repub- 
lic !  you  are  free  to  vote,  and  free  to  work,  and  free  to 
starve  if  you  prefer  it,  and  free  to  do  evil  and  suffer  for 
it; — and  this  new  knowledge  stupefies  you  so  that  you 
have  almost  forgotten  how  to  laugh ! 


LYS. 
I. 

IT  is  only  half-past  four  o'clock :  there  is  the  faintest 
blue  light  of  beginning  day, — and  little  Victoire  already 
stands  at  the  bedside  with  my  wakening  cup  of  hot  black 
fragrant  coffee.  What !  so  early  ?  .  .  .  Then  with  a  sud- 
den heart-start  I  remember  this  is  my  last  West  Indian 
morning.  And  the  child — her  large  timid  eyes  all  gently 
luminous — is  pressing  something  into  my  hand. 

Two  vanilla  beans  wrapped  in  a  morsel  of  banana- 
leaf, — her  poor  little  farewell  gift ! .  .  . 

Other  trifling  souvenirs  are  already  packed  away.  Al- 
most everybody  that  knows  me  has  given  me  something. 
Manm  -  Robert  brought  me  a  tiny  packet  of  orange- 
seeds, — seeds  of  a  "  gift-orange  " :  so  long  as  I  can  keep 
these  in  my  vest-pocket  I  will  never  be  without  money. 
Cyrillia  brought  me  a  package  of  bouts,  and  a  pretty  box 
of  French  matches,  warranted  inextinguishable  by  wind. 
Azaline,  the  blanchisseuse,  sent  me  a  little  pocket  look- 
ing-glass. Cerbonnie,  the  machanne,  left  a  little  cup  of 
guava  jelly  for  me  last  night.  Mimi  —  dear  child! — 
brought  me  a  little  paper  dog !  It  is  her  best  toy ;  but 
those  gentle  black  eyes  would  stream  with  tears  if  I 
dared  to  refuse  it.  ...  Oh,  Mimi !  what  am  I  to  do  with 
a  little  paper  dog  ?  And  what  am  I  to  do  with  the 
chocolate-sticks  and  the  cocoanuts  and  all  the  sugar- 
cane and  all  the  cinnamon-apples  ? .  .  . 


412  Martinique  Sketches. 

II. 

.  .  .  TWENTY  minutes  past  five  by  the  clock  of  the 
Bourse.  The  hill  shadows  are  shrinking  back  from  the 
shore; — the  long  wharves  reach  out  yellow  into  the 
sun ; — the  tamarinds  of  the  Place  Bertin,  and  the  pharos 
for  half  its  height,  and  the  red-tiled  roofs  along  the  bay 
are  catching  the  glow.  Then,  over  the  light-house — on 
the  outermost  line  depending  from  the  southern  yard- 
arm  of  the  semaphore — a  big  black  ball  suddenly  runs 
up  like  a  spider  climbing  its  own  thread.  .  .  .  Steamer 
from  the  South  !  The  packet  has  been  sighted.  And 
I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  pack  away  into  a  specially 
purchased  wooden  box  all  the  fruits  and  vegetable  curi- 
osities and  odd  little  presents  sent  to  me.  If  Radice  the 
boatman  had  not  come  to  help  me,  I  should  never  be 
able  to  get  ready ;  for  the  work  of  packing  is  being  con- 
tinually interrupted  by  friends  and  acquaintances  com- 
ing to  say  good-bye.  Manm- Robert  brings  to  see  me  a 
pretty  young  girl — very  fair,  with  a  violet  foulard  twisted 
about  her  blonde  head.  It  is  little  Basilique,  who  is  go- 
ing to  make  her  pouemie  communion.  So  I  kiss  her,  ac- 
cording to  the  old  colonial  custom,  once  on  each  downy 
cheek ; — and  she  is  to  pray  to  Notre  Dame  du  Bon  Port 
that  the  ship  shall  bear  me  safely  to  far-away  New  York. 

And  even  then  the  steamer's  cannon-call  shakes  over 
the  town  and  into  the  hills  behind  us,  which  answer  with 
all  the  thunder  of  their  phantom  artillery. 


III. 

.  .  .  THERE  is  a  young  white  lady,  accompanied  by  an 
aged  negress,  already  waiting  on  the  south  wharf  for  the 
boat ; — evidently  she  is  to  be  one  of  my  fellow-passen- 
gers. Quite  a  pleasing  presence  :  slight  graceful  fig- 
ure,— a  face  not  precisely  pretty,  but  delicate  and  sensi- 


Lys.  413 

tive,  with  the  odd  charm  of  violet  eyes  under  black  eye- 
brows. .  .  . 

A  friend  who  comes  to  see  me  off  tells  me  all  about 
her.  Mademoiselle  Lys  is  going  to  New  York  to  be  a 
governess, — to  leave  her  native  island  forever.  A  story 
sad  enough,  though  not  more  so  than  that  of  many  a 
gentle  Creole  girl.  And  she  is  going  all  alone ;  for  I  see 
her  bidding  good-bye  to  old  Titine, — kissing  her,  "Adie 
encb,  che ; — Son-Die  ke  beni  ou!"  sobs  the  poor  servant, 
with  tears  streaming  down  her  kind  black  face.  She 
takes  off  her  blue  shoulder-kerchief,  and  waves  it  as  the 
boat  recedes  from  the  wooden  steps. 

.  .  .  Fifteen  minutes  later,  Mademoiselle  and  I  find 
ourselves  under  the  awnings  shading  the  saloon-deck  of 
the  Guadeloupe.  There  are  at  least  fifty  passengers, — 
many  resting  in  chairs,  lazy -looking  Demerara  chairs 
with  arm-supports  immensely  lengthened  so  as  to  form 
rests  for  the  lower  limbs.  Overhead,  suspended  from 
the  awning  -  frames,  are  two  tin  cages  containing  par- 
rots ; — and  I  see  two  little  greenish  monkeys,  no  bigger 
than  squirrels,  tied  to  the  wheel-hatch, — two  sakiwinkis. 
These  are  from  the  forests  of  British  Guiana.  They 
keep  up  a  continual  thin  sharp  twittering,  like  birds, — 
all  the  while  circling,  ascending,  descending,  retreating 
or  advancing  to  the  limit  of  the  little  ropes  attaching 
them  to  the  hatch. 

The  Guadeloupe  has  seven  hundred  packages  to  de- 
liver at  St.  Pierre  :  we  have  ample  time, — Mademoiselle 
Violet- Eyes  and  I, — to  take  one  last  look  at  the  "Pays 
des  Revenants." 

I  wonder  what  her  thoughts  are,  feeling  a  singular 
sympathy  for  her, — for  I  am  in  that  sympathetic  mood 
which  the  natural  emotion  of  leaving  places  and  persons 
one  has  become  fond  of,  is  apt  to  inspire.  And  now  at 
the  moment  of  my  going, — when  I  seem  to  understand 


4H  Martinique  Sketches. 

as  never  before  the  beauty  of  that  tropic  Nature,  and 
the  simple  charm  of  the  life  to  which  I  am  bidding  fare- 
well,— the  question  comes  to  me  :  "  Does  she  not  love  it 
all  as  I  do, — nay,  even  much  more,  because  of  that  in 
her  own  existence  which  belongs  to  it  ?"  But  as  a  child 
of  the  land,  she  has  seen  no  other  skies, — fancies,  per- 
haps, there  may  be  brighter  ones.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Nowhere  on  this  earth,  Violet-Eyes! — nowhere  be- 
neath this  sun !  .  .  .  Oh  !  the  dawnless  glory  of  tropic 
morning ! — the  single  sudden  leap  of  the  giant  light  over 
the  purpling  of  a  hundred  peaks, — over  the  surging  of 
the  mornes  !  And  the  early  breezes  from  the  hills, — all 
cool  out  of  the  sleep  of  the  forests,  and  heavy  with  vege- 
tal odors  thick,  sappy,  savage-sweet ! — and  the  wild  high 
winds  that  run  ruffling  and  crumpling  through  the  cane 
of  the  mountain  slopes  in  storms  of  papery  sound  ! — 

And  the  mighty  dreaming  of  the  woods,  —  green- 
drenched  with  silent  pouring  of  creepers, — dashed  with 
the  lilac  and  yellow  and  rosy  foam  of  liana  flowers ! — 

And  the  eternal  azure  apparition  of  the  all -circling 
sea, — that  as  you  mount  the  heights  ever  appears  to  rise 
perpendicularly  behind  you, — that  seems,  as  you  descend, 
to  sink  and  flatten  before  you  !  — 

And  the  violet  velvet  distances  of  evening ; — and  the 
swaying  of  palms  against  the  orange-burning, — when  all 
the  heaven  seems  filled  with  vapors  of  a  molten  sun !  .  .  . 


IV. 

How  beautiful  the  mornes  and  azure-shadowed  hol- 
lows in  the  jewel  -  clearness  of  this  perfect  morning ! 
Even  Pelee  wears  only  her  very  lightest  head-dress  of 
gauze  ;  and  all  the  wrinklings  of  her  green  robe  take 
unfamiliar  tenderness  of  tint  from  the  early  sun.  All 
the  quaint  peaking  of  the  colored  town — sprinkling  the 
sweep  of  blue  bay  with  red  and  yellow  and  white-of- 


Lys.  415 

cream — takes  a  sharpness  in  this  limpid  light  as  if  seen 
through  a  diamond  lens ;  and  there  above  the  living  green 
of  the  familiar  hills  I  can  see  even  the  faces  of  the  stat- 
ues— the  black  Christ  on  his  white  cross,  and  the  White 
Lady  of  the  Morne  d'Orange — among  upcurving  palms. 
...  It  is  all  as  though  the  island  were  donning  its  utmost 
possible  loveliness,  exerting  all  Its  witchery, — seeking  by 
supremest  charm  to  win  back  and  hold  its  wandering 
child, — Violet-Eyes  over  there  !  .  .  .  She  is  looking  too. 

I  wonder  if  she  sees  the  great  palms  of  the  Voie  du 
Parnasse, —  curving  far  away  as  to  bid  us  adieu,  like 
beautiful  bending  women.  I  wonder  if  they  are  not  try- 
ing to  say  something  to  her ;  and  I  try  myself  to  fancy 
what  that  something  is  :  — 

— "Child,  wilt  thou  indeed  abandon  all  who  love  thee! 
.  .  .  Listen  ! — 'tis  a  dim  grey  land  thou  goest  unto, — a 
land  of  bitter  winds, — a  land  of  strange  gods, — a  land 
of  hardness  and  barrenness,  where  even  Nature  may  not 
live  through  half  the  cycling  of  the  year !  Thou  wilt 
never  see  us  there.  .  .  .  And  there,  when  thou  shalt  sleep 
thy  long  sleep,  child,  that  land  will  have  no  power  to 
lift  thee  up ; — vast  weight  of  stone  will  press  thee  down 
forever ; — until  the  heavens  be  no  more  thou  shalt  not 
awake ! .  .  .  But  here,  darling,  our  loving  roots  would  seek 
for  thee,  would  find  thee :  thou  shouldst  live  again  ! — 
we  lift,  like  Aztec  priests,  the  blood  of  hearts  to  the 
Sun  !"  .  .  . 

V. 

...  IT  is  very  hot.  ...  I  hold  in  my  hand  a  Japanese 
paper-fan  with  a  design  upon  it  of  the  simplest  sort :  one 
jointed  green  bamboo,  with  a  single  spurt  of  sharp  leaves, 
cutting  across  a  pale  blue  murky  double  streak  that 
means  the  horizon  above  a  sea.  That  is  all.  Trivial  to 
my  Northern  friends  this  design  might  seem ;  but  to  me 
it  causes  a  pleasure  bordering  on  pain.  ...  I  know  so 


41 6  Martinique  Sketches. 

well  what  the  artist  means ;  and  they  could  not  know, 
unless  they  had  seen  bamboos, — and  bamboos  peculiarly 
situated.  As  I  look  at  this  fan  I  know  myself  descend- 
ing the  Morne  Parnasse  by  the  steep  winding  road ;  I 
have  the  sense  of  windy  heights  behind  me,  and  forest 
on  either  hand,  and  before  me  the  blended  azure  of  sky 
and  sea  with  one  bamboo-spray  swaying  across  it  at  the 
lev.el  of  my  eyes.  Nor  is  this  all ; — I  have  the  every 
sensation  of  the  very  moment, — the  vegetal  odors,  the 
mighty  tropic  light,  the  warmth,  the  intensity  of  irrepro- 
ducible  color.  . .  .  Beyond  a  doubt,  the  artist  who  dashed 
the  design  on  this  fan  with  his  miraculous  brush  must 
have  had  a  nearly  similar  experience  to  that  of  which 
the  memory  is  thus  aroused  in  me,  but  which  I  cannot 
communicate  to  others. 

.  .  .  And  it  seems  to  me  now  that  all  which  I  have 
tried  to  write  about  the  Pays  des  Revenants  can  only  be 
for  others,  who  have  never  beheld  it, — vague  like  the 
design  upon  this  fan. 

VI. 

Brrrrrrrrrrr  / . . .  The  steam-winch  is  lifting  the  anch- 
or ;  and  the  Guadeloupe  trembles  through  every  plank 
as  the  iron  torrent  of  her  chain-cable  rumbles  through 
the  hawse-holes.  ...  At  last  the  quivering  ceases ; — 
there  is  a  moment's  silence  ;  and  Violet-Eyes  seems  try- 
ing to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  her  faithful  bonne  among 
the  ever-thickening  crowd  upon  the  quay.  .  .  .  Ah  !  there 
she  is — waving  her  foulard.  Mademoiselle  Lys  is  wav- 
ing a  handkerchief  in  reply.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  shock  of  the  farewell  gun  shakes  heavily 
through  our  hearts,  and  over  the  bay, — where  the  tall 
mornes  catch  the  flapping  thunder,  and  buffet  it  through 
all  their  circle  in  tremendous  mockery.  Then  there  is  a 
great  whirling  and  whispering  of  whitened  water  behind 
the  steamer — another, — another  ;  and  the  whirl  becomes 


Lys. 


417 


a  foaming  stream :  the  mighty  propeller  is  playing !  .  .  . 
All  the  blue  harbor  swings  slowly  round  ; — and  the  green 
limbs  of  the  land  are  pushed  out  further  on  the  left, 
shrink  back  upon  the  right; — and  the  mountains  are 
moving  their  shoulders.  And  then  the  many-tinted  fa- 
c^ades, — and  the  tamarinds  of  the  Place  Bertin, — and  the 
light-house, — and  the  long  wharves  with  their  throng  of 
turbaned  women, — and  the  cathedral  towers, — and  the 


BASSE-TERRE,   ST.   KITT  S. 


fair  palms,  —  and  the  statues  of  the  hills,  —  all  veer, 
change  place,  and  begin  to  float  away  .  .  .  steadily,  very 
swiftly. 

Farewell,  fair  city, — sun-kissed  city, — many-fountained 
city  ! — dear  yellow-glimmering  streets, — white  pavements 
learned  by  heart,  —  and  faces  ever  looked  for,  —  and 
voices  ever  loved !  Farewell,  white  towers  with  your 
golden-throated  bells!  —  farewell,  green  steeps,  bathed 
in  the  light  of  summer  everlasting ! — craters  with  your 
coronets  of  forest ! — bright  mountain  paths  upwinding 
'neath  pomp  of  fern  and  angelin  and  feathery  bamboo ! 
— and  gracious  palms  that  drowse  above  the  dead! 


41 8  Martinique  Sketches. 

Farewell,  soft-shadowing  majesty  of  valleys  unfolding 
to  the  sun, — green  golden  cane-fields  ripening  to  the 


.  .  .  The  town  vanishes.  The  island  slowly  becomes 
a  green  silhouette.  So  might  Columbus  first  have  seen 
it  from  the  deck  of  his  caravel,  —  nearly  four  hundred 
years  ago.  At  this  distance  there  are  no  more  signs  of 
life  upon  it  than  when  it  first  became  visible  to  his  eyes : 
yet  there  are  cities  there, — and  toiling, — and  suffering, — 
and  gentle  hearts  that  knew  me.  .  .  .  Now  it  is  turning 
blue, — the  beautiful  shape  I—becoming  a  dream.  .  .  . 


VII. 

AND  Dominica  draws  nearer, — sharply  massing  her 
hills  against  the  vast  light  in  purple  nodes  and  gibbosi- 
ties and  denticulations.  Closer  and  closer  it  comes, 
until  the  green  of  its  heights  breaks  through  the  purple 
here  and  there, — in  flashings  and  ribbings  of  color.  Then 
it  remains  as  if  motionless  a  while ; — then  the  green 
lights  go  out  again,— and  all  the  shape  begins  to  recede 
sideward  towards  the  south. 

.  .  .  And  what  had  appeared  a  pearl-grey  cloud  in  the 
north  slowly  reveals  itself  as  another  island  of  mount- 
ains,—  hunched  and  horned  and  mammiform:  Guade- 
loupe begins  to  show  her  double  profile.  But  Marti- 
nique is  still  visible ; — Pelee  still  peers  high  over  the 
rim  of  the  south.  .  .  .  Day  wanes; — the  shadow  of 
the  ship  lengthens  over  the  flower-blue  water.  Pelee 
changes  aspect  at  last, — turns  pale  as  a  ghost, — but  will 
not  fade  away.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  sun  begins  to  sink  as  he  always  sinks  to  his 
death  in  the  tropics, — swiftly, — too  swiftly  ! — and  the 
glory  of  him  makes  golden  all  the  hollow  west, — and 
bronzes  all  the  flickering  wave-backs.  But  still  the  gra- 


Lys.  419 

cious  phantom  of  the  island  will  not  go, — softly  haunting 
us  through  the  splendid  haze.  And  always  the  tropic 
wind  blows  soft  and  warm  ; — there  is  an  indescribable 
caress  in  it !  Perhaps  some  such  breeze,  blowing  from 
Indian  waters,  might  have  inspired  that  prophecy  of 
Islam  concerning  the  Wind  of  the  Last  Day, — that  u  Yel- 
low Wind,  softer  than  silk,  balmier  than  musk," — which 
is  to  sweep  the  spirits  of  the  just  to  God  in  the  great 
Winnowing  of  Souls. .  .  . 

Then  into  the  indigo  night  vanishes  forever  from  my 
eyes  the  ghost  of  Pelee  ;  and  the  moon  swings  up, — a 
young  and  lazy  moon,  drowsing  upon  her  back,  as  in  a 
hammock.  .  .  .  Yet  a  few  nights  more,  and  we  shall  see 
this  slim  young  moon  erect,  —  gliding  upright  on  her 
way, — coldly  beautiful  like  a  fair  Northern  girl. 


VIII. 

AND  ever  through  tepid  nights  and  azure  days  the 
Guadeloupe  rushes  on, — her  wake  a  river  of  snow  be- 
neath the  sun,  a  torrent  of  fire  beneath  the  stars,— 
steaming  straight  for  the  North. 

Under  the  peaking  of  Montserrat  we  steam, — beauti- 
ful Montserrat,  all  softly  wrinkled  like  a  robe  of  green- 
est velvet  fallen  from  the  waist! — breaking  the  pretty 
sleep  of  Plymouth  town  behind  its  screen  of  palms  .  .  . 
young  palms,  slender  and  full  of  grace  as  creole  children 
are;— 

And  by  tall  Nevis,  with  her  trinity  of  dead  craters 
purpling  through  ocean-haze ; — by  clouded  St.  Christo- 
pher's mountain -giant; — past  ghostly  St.  Martin's,  far- 
floating  in  fog  of  gold,  like  some  dream  of  the  Saint's 
own  Second  Summer ; — 

Past  low  Antigua's  vast  blue  harbor, — shark-haunted, 
bounded  about  by  huddling  of  little  hills,  blue  and 
green  ;— 


420  Martinique  Sketches. 

Past  Santa  Cruz,  the  "  Island  of  the  Holy  Cross,"— 
all  radiant  with  verdure  though  wellnigh  woodless, — 
nakedly  beautiful  in  the  tropic  light  as  a  perfect 
statue ; — 

Past  the  long  cerulean  reaching  and  heaping  of  Porto 
Rico  on  the  left,  and  past  hopeless  St.  Thomas  on  the 
right,  —  old  St.  Thomas,  watching  the  going  and  the 
coming  of  the  commerce  that  long  since  abandoned  her 
port, — watching  the  ships  once  humbly  solicitous  for 
patronage  now  turning  away  to  the  Spanish  rival,  like 
ingrates  forsaking  a  ruined  patrician  ;— 

And  the  vapory  Vision  of  St.  John ; — and  the  grey 
ghost  of  Tortola, — and  further,  fainter,  still  more  weird- 
ly dim,  the  aureate  phantom  of  Virgin  Gorda. 


IX. 

THEN  only  the  enormous  double-vision  of  sky  and 
sea. 

The  sky:  a  cupola  of  blinding  blue,  shading  down 
and  paling  into  spectral  green  at  the  rim  of  the  world,— 
and  all  fleckless,  save  at  evening.  Then,  with  sunset, 
comes  a  light  gold-drift  of  little  feathery  cloudlets  into 
the  West, — stippling  it  as  with  a  snow  of  fire. 

The  sea :  no  flower-tint  may  now  make  any  compari- 
son for  the  splendor  of  its  lucent  color.  It  has  shifted 
its  hue; — for  we  have  entered  into  the  Azure  Stream: 
it  has  more  than  the  magnificence  of  burning  cyan- 
ogen  

But,  at  night,  the  Cross  of  the  South  appears  no 
more.  And  other  changes  come,  as  day  succeeds  to 
day, — a  lengthening  of  the  hours  of  light,  a  longer  lin- 
gering of  the  after-glow, — a  cooling  of  the  wind.  Each 
morning  the  air  seems  a  little  cooler,  a  little  rarer; — each 
noon  the  sky  looks  a  little  paler,  a  little  further  away — 
always  heightening,  yet  also  more  shadowy,  as  if  its  col- 


Lys.  421 

or,  receding,  were  dimmed  by  distance, — were   coming 
more  faintly  down  from  vaster  altitudes. 

.  .  .  Mademoiselle  is  petted  like  a  child  by  the  lady 
passengers.  And  every  man  seems  anxious  to  aid  in 
making  her  voyage  a  pleasant  one.  For  much  of  which, 
I  think,  she  may  thank  her  eyes ! 


X. 

A  DIM  morning  and  chill ; — blank  sky  and  sunless 
waters :  the  sombre  heaven  of  the  North  with  colorless 
horizon  rounding  in  a  blind  grey  sea.  .  .  .  What  a  sud- 
den weight  comes  to  the  heart  with  the  touch  of  the 
cold  mist,  with  the  spectral  melancholy  of  the  dawn  ! — 
and  then  what  foolish  though  irrepressible  yearning  for 
the  vanished  azure  left  behind  ! 

.  .  .  The  little  monkeys  twitter  plaintively,  trembling 
in  the  chilly  air.  The  parrots  have  nothing  to  say  :  they 
look  benumbed,  and  sit  on  their  perches  with  eyes 
closed. 

...  A  vagueness  begins  to  shape  itself  along  the  verge 
of  the  sea,  far  to  port:  that  long  heavy  clouding  which 
indicates  the  approach  of  land.  And  from  it  now  floats 
to  us  something  ghostly  and  frigid  which  makes  the 
light  filmy  and  the  sea  shadowy  as  a  flood  of  dreams, — 
the  fog  of  the  Jersey  coast. 

At  once  the  engines  slacken  their  respiration.  The 
Guadeloupe  begins  to  utter  her  steam-cry  of  warning, — 
regularly  at  intervals  of  two  minutes, — for  she  is  now  in 
the  track  of  all  the  ocean  vessels.  And  from  far  away 
we  can  hear  a  heavy  knelling, — the  booming  of  some 
great  fog-bell. 

.  .  .  All  in  a  white  twilight.  The  place  of  the  horizon 
has  vanished ; — we  seem  ringed  in  by  a  wall  of  smoke.  . .  . 
Out  of  this  vapory  emptiness — very  suddenly — an  enor- 


422  Martinique  Sketches. 

mous  steamer  rushes,  towering  like  a  hill  —  passes  so 
close  that  we  can  see  faces,  and  disappears  again,  leav- 
ing the  sea  heaving  and  frothing  behind  her. 

...  As  I  lean  over  the  rail  to  watch  the  swirling  of 
the  wake,  I  feel  something  pulling  at  my  sleeve :  a 
hand,  —  a  tiny  black  hand,  —  the  hand  of  a  sakiwinki. 
One  of  the  little  monkeys,  straining  to  the  full  length  of 
his  string,  is  making  this  dumb  appeal  for  human  sympa- 
thy ; — the  bird-black  eyes  of  both  are  fixed  upon  me 
with  the  oddest  look  of  pleading.  Poor  little  tropical 
exiles  !  I  stoop  to  caress  them  ;  but  regret  the  impulse 
a  moment  later :  they  utter  such  beseeching  cries  when 
I  find  myself  obliged  to  leave  them  again  alone !  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Hour  after  hour  the  Guadeloupe  glides  on  through 
the  white  gloom, — cautiously,  as  if  feeling  her  way ;  al- 
ways sounding  her  whistle,  ringing  her  bells,  until  at  last 
some  brown-winged  bark  comes  flitting  to  us  out  of  the 
mist,  bearing  a  pilot.  .  .  .  How  strange  it  must  all  seem 
to  Mademoiselle  who  stands  so  silent  there  at  the  rail ! — 
how  weird  this  veiled  world  must  appear  to  her,  after 
the  sapphire  light  of  her  own  West  Indian  sky,  and  the 
great  lazulite  splendor  of  her  own  tropic  sea ! 

But  a  wind  comes  ! — it  strengthens, — begins  to  blow 
very  cold.  The  mists  thin  before  its  blowing ;  and  the 
wan  blank  sky  is  all  revealed  again  with  livid  horizon 
around  the  heaving  of  the  iron-grey  sea. 

.  .  .  Thou  dim  and  lofty  heaven  of  the  North, — grey 
sky  of  Odin,  —  bitter  thy  winds  and  spectral  all  thy 
colors !  —  they  that  dwell  beneath  thee  know  not  the 
glory  of  Eternal  Summer's  green, — the  azure  splendor  of 
southern  day ! — but  thine  are  the  lightnings  of  Thought 
illuminating  for  human  eyes  the  interspaces  between 
sun  and  sun.  Thine  the  generations  of  might,  —  the 
strivers,the  battlers, — the  men  who  make  Nature  tame ! — 


Lys.  423 

thine  the  domain  of  inspiration  and  achievement, — the 
larger  heroisms,  the  vaster  labors  that  endure,  the  higher 
knowledge,  and  all  the  witchcrafts  of  science !  .  .  . 

But  in  each  one  of  us  there  lives  a  mysterious  Some- 
thing which  is  Self,  yet  also  infinitely  more  than  Self, — 
incomprehensibly  multiple, — the  complex  total  of  sensa- 
tions, impulses,  timidities  belonging  to  the  unknown  past. 
And  the  lips  of  the  little  stranger  from  the  tropics  have 
become  all  white,  because  that  Something  within  her, — 
ghostly  bequest  from  generations  who  loved  the  light 
and  rest  and  wondrous  color  of  a  more  radiant  world, — 
now  shrinks  all  back  about  her  girl's  heart  with  fear  of 
this  pale  grim  North.  .  .  .  And  lo ! — opening  mile-wide 
in  dream-grey  majesty  before  us, — reaching  away,  through 
measureless  mazes  of  masting,  into  remotenesses  all  va- 
por-veiled,— the  mighty  perspective  of  New  York  har- 
bor!... 

Thou  knowest  it  not,  this  gloom  about  us,  little  maid- 
en;— 'tis  only  a  magical  dusk  we  are  entering, — only  that 
mystic  dimness  in  which  miracles  must  be  wrought !  .  .  . 
See  the  marvellous  shapes  uprising, — the  immensities, 
the  astonishments  !  And  other  greater  wonders  thou 
wilt  behold  in  a  little  while,  when  we  shall  have  become 
lost  to  each  other  forever  in  the  surging  of  the  City's 
million-hearted  life !  .  .  .  Tis  all  shadow  here,  thou  say- 
est  ? — Ay,  'tis  twilight,  verily,  by  contrast  with  that  glory 
out  of  which  thou  earnest,  Lys — twilight  only, — but  the 
Twilight  of  the  Gods !  .  .  .  Adie,  che  /— Bon-Die  ke  beni 
ou!.t 


APPENDIX. 


SOME  CREOLE  MELODIES. 

MORE  than  a  hundred  years  ago  Thibault  de  Chanvallon  expressed 
his  astonishment  at  the  charm  and  wonderful  sense  of  musical  rhythm 
characterizing  the  slave-songs  and  slave-dances  of  Martinique.  The 
rhythmical  sense  of  the  negroes  especially  impressed  him.  *'  I  have 
seen,"  he  writes, "  seven  or  eight  hundred  negroes  accompanying  a 
wedding-party  to  the  sound  of  song .  they  would  all  leap  up  in  the 
air  and  come  down  together ; — the  movement  was  so  exact  and  gen- 
eral that  the  noise  of  their  fall  made  but  a  single  sound." 

An  almost  similar  phenomenon  may  be  witnessed  any  Carnival 
season  in  St.  Pierre, — while  the  Devil  makes  his  nightly  round,  fol- 
lowed by  many  hundred  boys  clapping  hands  and  leaping  in  chorus. 
It  may  also  be  observed  in  the  popular  malicious  custom  of  the 
pillard,  or,  in  Creole,  piya.  Some  person  whom  it  is  deemed  justi- 
fiable and  safe  to  annoy,  may  suddenly  find  himself  followed  in  the 
street  by  a  singing  chorus  of  several  hundred,  all  clapping  hands  and 
dancing  or  running  in  perfect  time,  so  that  all  the  bare  feet  strike 
the  ground  together.  Or  the  pillard-chorus  may  even  take  up  tts 
position  before  the  residence  of  the  party  disliked,  and  then  proceed 
with  its  performance.  An  example  of  such  a  pillard  is  given  further 
on,  in  the  song  entitled  Lotma  tomb/.  The  improvisation  by  a 
single  voice  begins  the  pillard, — which  in  English  might  be  rendered 
as  follows:— 


Appendix.  425 

(Single  voice)     You  little  children  there !  —  you  who  were  by  the 

river-side  ! 

Tell  pie  truly  this  : — Did  you  see  Loema  fall  ? 
Tell  me  truly  this— 

(Chorus ',  opening)  Did  you  see  Loema  fall? 

(Single  voice)  Tell  me  truly  this — 

(Chorus)  Did  you  see  Loema  fall? 

(Single  voice,  more  rapidly)    Tell  me  truly  this — 
(Chorus,  more  quickly)  Loema  fall! 

(Single  voice)  Tell  me  truly  this — 

(Chorus)  Loema  fall! 

(Single  voice)  Tell  me  truly  this — 

(Chorus,  always  more  quickly,  and  more  loudly,  all  the  hands  clap- 
ping together  like  a  Jire  of  musketry)    Loema  fall !  etc. 

The  same  rhythmic  element  characterizes  many  of  the  games  and 
round  dances  of  Martinique  children; — but,  as  a  rule,  I  think  it  is 
perceptible  that  the  sense  of  time  is  less  developed  in  the  colored 
children  than  in  the  black. 

The  other  melodies  which  are  given  as  specimens  of  Martinique 
music  show  less  of  the  African  element, — the  nearest  approach  to  it 
being  in  Tant  sirop;  but  all  are  probably  creations  of  the  mixed 
race.  Marie-Ctimence  is  a  Carnival  satire  composed  not  more  than 
four  years  ago.  To-to-to  is  very  old — dates  back,  perhaps,  to  the 
time  of  the  belles-affranchies.  It  is  seldom  sung  now  except  by  sur- 
vivors of  the  old  regime:  the  sincerity  and  tenderness  of  the  emo- 
tion that  inspired  it — the  old  sweetness  of  heart  and  simplicity  of 
thought, — are  passing  forever  away. 

To  my  friend,  Henry  Edward  Krehbiel,  the  musical  lecturer  and 
critic, — at  once  historian  and  folklorist  in  the  study  of  race-music, — 
and  to  Mr.  Frank  van  der  Stucken,  the  New  York  musical  com- 
poser, I  owe  the  preparation  of  these  four  melodies  for  voice  and 
piano-forte.  The  arrangements  of  To-to-to  and  Loe'ma  tombe"  are 
Mr.  Van  der  Stucken's. 


426 


Appendix. 


Poco  lento. 


1  TO-TO-TO." 

(Creole  'words.') 

Allegretto. 


C'est  mom 


Poco  lento. 


menm     lan-mou,  Ou  -  v6    la  -  pote 


~^r~r 

ba  moin."  To,  to, 


to! 


mf 


~=^ 


Attegretto. 


qui   la?" 


1  Ou  -  ve      la  -  p6te     ba  moin.' 


Appendix. 


42; 


MARIE-CLEMENCE. 
(Creole  words.} 


Ma  -  rie  Cldmence  maudi,      La  •  mo-ri  fritt    li 


|    1st  time. 


mau-di,     Collier-choux  li  inau-  di,    Toutt  baggale  li   mau-di. 


I   2dtime.  Fine.  \ 


Toutt  baggale  li    mau-di.        Ale ! . . .       La-  gue  mom,  lague  moin, 


428 


Appendix. 


la-gue  moin !  Moin  ke  ne  -  ye    c6  moin,  Moin  ke  ne-  ye 


r 


"9 


ad  lib. 


=g==a=s=t=j: 

c6       moin,      En  -  ba  gou6s  pile  ouOche  la. 


_     _ 

— ij^"^ — r     ^ — 


I*  J 


\» — =1— • — H — — •! J 


TANT  SIROP  EST  DOUX. 

(Negro-French . ) 


Allegro  risoluto. 


Tant  si  -  rop  est  doux,  Ma-  de  -  lein  -  e !    Tant    si  -  rop  -  la 


-^~% 


Appendix. 

doux!  doux!   Ne   fai    pas  tant  de  bruit,  Ma  -  de-leine,  Ne 


fai    pas  tant  de  bruit,  Ma-de-leine,  La    mai  -  son  n'est  pas  a 


3,  Ma  -  de-leine,  La     mai  -  son    n'eet  pas    a        nous. 


±EE  ==» 


43°  Appendix. 

LOEMA   TOMBE. 

(Creole  words.) 
Allegro  moderato. 

Ce     ti  manmaille-la!  Zautt  te    bo  -  la  -  ri  -  vie,— On'a  di  moin 


^«f.  continued  ad  lid. 
:       Si   oue    Lo  -  e  -  ma  torn -be!    Ou'adimoinconm'^a: 


I 


^^  growing  more  and  more  rapid. 

Lo  -  e  -  ma     torn  -  be !    Ou'a  di  moin  conm'  9a :    Lo-  e  -  ma    torn- 


Appendix. 


431 


be !  OiTa  di  moin  conm'    $a:      Lo  -  §  -  ma      torn     - 


THE    END. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


JAN  31  '83 
FEe    1  1983  SEC'fl 


MAR  5     1983  REC'D 


MOV  1  7  1993REG'G 


8  7  1994 
1  7  1994  KFC'O 


A3 


50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


APRl919948ES'a 
FEB  2  4  1997 

MAR  10 '97 
MAR2H997ltC'0 

APR  1  5  1998 
JUL  21 1997 


APR  2  6  1999  UFO 


3  2106  00069  4270 


